Banged Up
by frombluetored
Summary: There were many things Clara Oswald expected when she entered prison. Catching the eye of the prison's most notorious inmate was not one of them. [AU. Rating will change to M later on.]
1. Detached

**A/n: **Cover art for this fic is by the lovely Annie (link to her blog is on my profile :)! This AU includes Danny Pink (a character announced to join DW in the coming series), but it's just an AU version seeing as though we don't know much about him yet! Hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p>There was a type of white noise that emitted from an in-flight combat aircraft that could be found in the emptiness of a holding cell.<p>

But the similarities stopped there.

* * *

><p>Clara Oswald was exhausted and shaking with hunger when she was finally placed in her cell. She'd spent a week on the induction wing, or so they said, but she didn't remember much of it. There were films, and forms, and searches. She remembered all her belongings being stripped away and then replaced with strange items that must have passed through thousands of other hands. She remembered her barrister's face what felt like months ago as he peered through the bars of her cell in reception and informed her that there would be no appeal (there was no point). She remembered her dad making the frantic trip down from Blackpool with the few belongings she was allowed to take with her—underwear, books, pencils, paper, toiletries—but he hadn't even had time to kiss her goodbye.<p>

She remembered all of that, but what she didn't remember was why she was here.

But then again: maybe she was lying. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

* * *

><p>Her cell mate spared her the briefest of glances when she returned later that night. Clara was in the process of putting her sheets on her bed, acting so much on autopilot that she hardly felt anything at all, but when she saw the woman she was to live with, she stopped mid-action. For a terrible moment, she was caught staring at her. She looked entirely green thanks to the interweaving tattoos that littered every inch of visible skin. And she didn't seem amused by Clara's lingering stare.<p>

"I-I'm sorry," Clara said quickly, averting her eyes apologetically. She cleared her throat and tugged her sheet straight, bracing herself for some sort of threat or insult. But what came was much different than that.

"I'm Vastra. Everything you hear about me is true. If you're clever and kind, we'll get along just fine."

Clara held her breath as Vastra walked up behind her, thinking that that couldn't possibly be it. She couldn't get off that easily. But when Vastra sat atop her bed and opened one of her books, Clara decided she might've lucked out with her cell mate.

It was the first time she'd been lucky in a while.

* * *

><p>That first night, she saw wreckage behind her eyes.<p>

She dreamt of explosions that shook the earth, of jets bursting into hot, licking flames, of the shouted commands of a man long gone. She saw her own hand—her fingers long and reaching—stretched out in front of her eyes, reaching down towards what looked like the mouth of hell itself. And then she watched those same flames surge towards her. They burnt through her ribs and filled her until she was the mouth of hell, too. But no matter how much she burned, he never came back.

She woke up to a sharp stinging pain. It bloomed over her cheekbone and settled into the bones of her face. She realized after a moment of staring up at her new cell mate that she'd slapped her, though she didn't look particularly angry.

"I'm sorry," Clara gasped. Her shirt was soaked through with sweat and she could feel every muscle in her body quivering. She was certain she'd vomit up the little food she had if she didn't get it under control. "I'm sorry."

Vastra stared at her almost curiously. She didn't seem drowsy at all, even though Clara was certain it was the middle of the night.

"Who's John?" She wondered. She cocked her head to the side. "Who's Danny?"

The nausea peaked. Clara sat up, quivering all the while, and then shoved her blankets off her legs. She ran her fingers through her hair and bowed her head, her breathing labored. Just the sound of John's name brought back the sound of explosions. And just the sound of Danny's brought back an overwhelming feeling of homesickness.

Vastra sighed heavily in annoyance when Clara failed to answer, but she didn't rise from the bed.

"It'll get better. What's your name?"

"Clara." She answered automatically. Her breath stuttered in her chest before she got it back under control. "Clara Oswald." She sniffed.

"All right, Oz. Take a deep breath. Whatever you were dreaming of, it's not inside this prison. It can't hurt you."

If she wasn't so frightened of Vastra, she would've told her just how wrong she really was. It could hurt her, and it was inside this prison. It was inside _herself_.

* * *

><p>Clara had arrived after dinner the day prior, so she wasn't given a breakfast pack like most everyone else. She woke with a growling stomach and tried not to watch Vastra prepare her tea and porridge, but the smell of it—especially the tea—affected her more than she'd expected. She sat in her bed with her knees to her chest and her forehead pressed into her kneecaps, teary over the thought of her favorite mug back home. She was feeling teary over everything, and she had to piss so badly that it was staring to become an ache in her abdomen. But the toilet and sink were situated almost in direct view; the small wooden divider didn't do much to separate the room from the lavatory.<p>

Vastra must have seen the way she was squirming uncomfortably.

"You've got to use the toilet at some point, you know," Vastra spoke up. Clara listened as she took a long sip of her tea. She pressed her forehead harder into her knees. "How old are you, Oz?"

Clara's voice was muffled.

"Twenty-seven."

"Two years younger than me and two years older than I was when I entered. You'll do just fine." Vastra reassured her. Clara heard her set her mug down. "Look. I'll put my earphones in just this once, all right? Go and have your wee."

Clara shot off the bed quicker than she'd thought possible. In the face of her near-exploding bladder, her hunger couldn't hold her back much at all. She fought with the regulation trousers and closed her eyes tightly, still partially in disbelief that this was happening to her. But it was her life now.

She perched on the edge of her bed and waited until Vastra pulled her earphones out.

"Thank you," she told her softly. She hoped she could read the genuine feeling of gratitude surging through her.

"Yes, well, I won't do it again," Vastra reminded her firmly. "You'll have to get used to it."

Clara rubbed her thighs nervously.

"I know." She assured her.

Vastra lifted her mug to her lips and took a sip, her eyes locked on Clara. She examined her for a few moments and then seemed to make up her mind about something. She turned and set her mug on the cheap chest-of-drawers beside her bed and then opened the top drawer. Clara watched her rifle around for a few moments before retrieving two things.

She held them out. Clara stared.

"Go on, take them." Vastra urged. "I ordered too many from canteen last week."

Clara's eyes burned as she leaned forward and took the throwaway coffee cup and tea bag. Her fingers shook.

"You can use my kettle. I'll start it up for you." Vastra continued. She rose from the bed and walked over to the chest-of-drawers. She picked up the electric kettle and carried it over to the sink to fill it. Clara was stuck in place, watching her, the tea bag sticking to her damp palm.

She couldn't help it.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" She asked. "I don't…I don't have anything to repay you with."

Vastra didn't even look up. She placed the kettle back on the electric ring and then turned the lever down, her back to Clara.

"Because I think you're clever. And I'm always looking for clever friends." She responded shortly.

Clara rose up on shaky legs when Vastra motioned her over. She carried her cup and tea bag over and handed them to Vastra. She watched as she dropped the tea bag in and poured the steaming water on top, her heart swelling with relief at just the sight of the steam. She took the hot paper cup and bounced the tea bag up and down impatiently, eager for it to seep.

"I'm in here. I can't be _too _clever." Clara said, without really thinking it through. She realized too late what Vastra could take that to mean. She looked up, stricken. "Not that I think _you're _not clever—I just mean…this wasn't exactly…"

She stopped, the words dissolving on her tongue. Vastra was looking coldly at her.

"I'm sorry." She whispered, horrified.

Vastra crossed her arms.

"I think you'll find out very quickly that we're the only clever ones in this country, Oz. I hope you find that out on the right side of things."

It sounded like a threat, and even though Clara knew making alliances she didn't quite understand was a mistake…the woman had given her _tea_. She owed her something.

"Right," she agreed quickly. She licked her lips. "I'm…whatever you need me to do. I'll do it. "

Vastra stared at her for a moment longer. And then she burst into laughter. Clara was left even more confused than before.

"I'm not bullying you into a prison gang!" She reassured her. "I'm just offering you my friendship for as long as I decide you're worthy of it."

It still sounded like a threat to Clara, but she supposed most everything would now.

* * *

><p>She felt better after the tea, but when they were ushered out for lunch, she was lightheaded with hunger again. She seemed to glide over the concrete floors, like she was floating above them. Vastra stayed by her side long enough to explain how the next few hours would play out—lunch, an hour and thirty minutes of outdoors time, then back to the cell—but then she'd disappeared. Clara shuffled along with what felt like hundreds of faceless inmates, certain this would be the way her entire sentence would go. And then she had the shock of her life. It came to her in the form of <em>men<em>.

She didn't mean to stop in place, but the sight threw her enough to cause it. Another inmate crashed hard into her back, sending her falling forward into another inmate, and then she found herself on the dirty servery floor, tangled up with another woman. She groaned as the woman's hand pressed hard over her stomach so she could heave herself up. She found herself lying on her back, breathless, staring up into the face of a cross middle-aged woman.

"Watch where you're fuckin' going, you slag." She bit out.

Clara propped herself up on her elbows with a grimace. The inmate had already stormed off with her friends by the time Clara had worked her way back to her feet.

All in all, it was a great start.

She received her lunch—some mess that was supposed to be vegetable pasty—and then looked for the emptiest table she could find. But by some luck, she saw Vastra's green arm waving at her from across the room. Clara limped over, her stomach still sore from the pressure of the woman's body weight. She was sure she'd have a bruise.

Vastra was sitting with a pretty young woman probably around Clara's age, with light brown hair and a charming freckle above her lip. She smiled at Clara as she sat down.

"Hi," Clara greeted.

"Hello!" The woman echoed.

"Oz, this is Jenny, my wife." Vastra introduced her. Jenny waved cheerfully, like there was no place on earth she'd rather be than where she was. Clara smiled back politely.

They didn't ask much of her conversation-wise, something Clara was relieved for. She was sure she still wasn't fully present. She wasn't sure when she'd ever be. Everything felt strangely unreal—unreal enough that there was panic beginning to gnaw incessantly at Clara's heart. She had the urge to smack her head into the wall, just to see if she was really there. Perhaps it was all a terrible dream.

She realized Jenny and Vastra were asking her something after their third attempt. She looked up from her untouched tray.

"Sorry," she said tiredly. "What was that?"

Jenny looked almost concerned.

"I was asking what you're here for." Jenny repeated.

Clara licked her lips and looked down at her tray. Her spoon shook between her quivering fingers.

"Um…" she trailed off as she heard the sound of deep laughter. She looked behind her, distracted. "Why are there men here?"

When she glanced back at Jenny and Vastra, she saw the tail-end of an amused look passing between them.

"This is the premiere budget prison. Men and women, together. Saves space and funds, or so they say." Vastra shared. "You're lucky to be here when you are, actually. We used to have every meal in our cells. They only just started doing lunches here because it meant less kitchen serving staff."

If anyone had bothered telling her any information after her conviction, perhaps she would've known that. But everyone had treated her like cattle.

"Is that…safe?" She asked hesitantly.

She watched Vastra's lips curl up into a smirk.

"Oz, you're sleeping beside a woman who ate the face off a child murderer." She said. She paused just long enough for Clara's blood to run cold. "Nothing here is safe."

Clara had to force herself not to lean back from her. She stuck her spoon into the pudding-like substance on her tray just for something to do. Anything but jumping up and running away. She'd spent six years in the RAF. She'd worked in reconnaissance and she'd seen some terrible, terrible things—some of which she'd made worse. But she hadn't been herself since the fire and the loss. She hadn't been herself since she'd snapped and snatched for control that wasn't hers. She hadn't been herself since she'd stepped into this establishment and felt every ounce of control being stripped away from her. She was filed down to her bare bones, left shivering and scared. He would've been so ashamed of her.

"Some more than others, though," Jenny hissed. Clara looked up and followed Jenny's eyes. After a moment of searching, she found herself looking at an older man, tall, with dark gray hair and fierce eyebrows. He was standing in line for lunch, but he had a huge circle of space around him, like everyone was too afraid to get close to him for fear of what he might do.

Clara looked at Vastra, confused.

"Is he…very dangerous?" She asked. "What did he do?"

Vastra looked towards the man as well. Her words were contemplative when she spoke.

"I don't know. But I do know this: even the screws are terrified of him. He runs the men's wing of this prison." Vastra responded. She looked back towards Clara. "Whatever he did, he doesn't feel sorry for it."

Clara tucked her hands in her lap.

"How do you—" Clara stopped. She blinked and looked down at her tray, afraid she'd become too inquisitive.

"How do I know that?" Vastra asked. Her lips curled up into that same predatory smile. "Because he's the only person in this prison I fear."


	2. Chain of Command

It was odd to stare up at the sky.

Clara could remember vividly the way clouds dissolved as you flew through them, the way the sunlight illuminated masses of them until they looked like vats of swollen sunlight. She recalled the rough texture of his palm against the small of her back as they trilled off coordinates and codes and things that made sense to her then, but seemed largely insignificant now. She pressed her palms into the hard, dry ground and leaned back on her arms, trying to make sense of the earth beneath her, but she still wasn't used to being grounded yet. She still hadn't stopped.

She credited her military training when she found a concealed spot in the outdoors yard, a good distance from any other inmates. It was a narrow space between a garbage bin and the fence that was just big enough for Clara, and she preferred it that way. The morning had left her head spinning and it was nice to look up at the sun and exist. It was easy to ignore the periodic leers from the male inmates as they spotted her, because she knew how to take care of herself. Perhaps they read that on her face, because none of them approached her.

Of course, she often gave herself a little _too much _credit.

"You're in my spot."

Clara lowered her eyes from the sky. A surge of pain shot down the length of her neck from the cramped position she'd had it in for what had to have been half an hour. She shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted forward at the person coming into view. It was a bulky inmate, with hard eyes and ham-like fists. Most notably of all, she was utterly bald, with a tattoo of a goose covering her scalp. In Clara's tranquil state, she almost felt her previous self return. She almost narrowed her eyes and told _her_ to get lost. But then the inmate slammed her fist into the side of the metal garbage bin and the sound became the deep roar of a jet spiraling down and—

Clara rose to her feet.

"Sorry. Didn't know. I'm new here." She muttered.

The inmate stepped past her roughly, purposely knocking their shoulders together. Clara tensed her muscles to keep from stumbling, just because she didn't want to give the woman the satisfaction. She wedged herself into the spot Clara had just vacated and then glowered up at her.

"Now you know, birdy. And if I see you again—even in the servery—I'll fuck you up."

Clara pursed her lips.

"Right."

She spent the rest of the hour making slow laps around the giant, fenced-in area, too uncertain to stop near anyone for fear of what she might be getting herself into.

* * *

><p>She'd been the boss her entire life.<p>

And then her mum died, and it was something she couldn't control. She let herself unravel.

She'd been the very first female wing commander since the merge.

And then she took it too far.

She'd once had a man's heart cradled in the palm of her hand. She could've made him do anything she wanted, but she didn't.

That 'but' had been her downfall. Her love had once been her strongest asset, but in a moment of trial, it became her weakness.

She was deconstructing herself again.

* * *

><p>She was greeted by the sight of a cardboard box when she entered her cell.<p>

"Screws finally dropped off your items," Vastra called, without even looking up. She was already reading a different book than the one she'd been reading last night.

Clara felt her heart lighten enough that it actually rose from its place in the pit of her stomach. She crossed over to her bed quickly and pulled the top off, her eyes scanning the contents greedily. It was all boring stuff—paper, stamps, pencils, envelopes, books, underwear, an alarm clock, trainers—but it was suddenly the greatest gift she'd ever been given. As her fingers trailed over the items, she realized she loved her father more in that moment than she ever had before. She could've cried in his arms and it would've been first time she'd shed a tear in years.

She set about unpacking her items and placing them around her side of the room. With objects that were _hers_, objects that she could control, she felt a bit better. She took a long time organizing everything and made a point of alphabetizing her books. She stacked her paper and her envelopes, she lined up the pencils on her desk. She placed her underwear and spare shoes in a drawer and plugged the clock up. She'd been at it for an hour before she realized Vastra was watching her.

"Did you check inside the shoes?" She asked, not at all embarrassed to have been found ogling. "They usually place smaller items inside, so they don't get lost in the shuffle."

Clara looked at her for a few awkward seconds, and then she turned back around. She pulled the second drawer open and peeked down at the shoes. She tucked her fingers inside the left, and then the right—and then she stopped.

Vastra spotted the shift in her posture.

"I figured. Most people send watches—it's miserable to be in bang-up without a consistent way to tell time. Is it a nice one? You can make some great trades with watches. They're difficult to get a hold of once you're inside."

Clara grasped the gold band between her thumb and index finger. She could hear her pulse roaring in her ears as she lifted it up and out of the shoe. She stared at the scratched face. She gently puddled it into her palm and touched the cool gold with her fingertips. Her father had cleaned it beautifully—there was no blood to be seen. There were no noticeable functional faults—besides the scratches, it was just as it'd always been.

"Oz?" Vastra asked. Clara heard her mattress squeak as she rose. Clara turned her back to Vastra as she approached, embarrassed and scared to be found crying over a wristwatch. She wanted to turn and tell Vastra to keep it, to trade it, to do what she wanted with it—but even as she felt that desire, she was latching it around her own left wrist. Her dad had taken many links out for her, so even though it was a bit large, it didn't slide off her hand. The watch face twisted to rest naturally over the blue veins of her wrist, as if it remembered the way the previous owner wore it.

"Yeah," Clara finally said. She didn't want Vastra to think she was ignoring her. "It's a beautiful one."

She turned and lifted her wrist to show her. She pretended her eyes weren't damp.

"Mmm, I see," Vastra said. She gave Clara a hard look. "You'd better keep a close eye on your hand."

It didn't take long for the implication to become apparent.

* * *

><p>"I want to send a letter." Clara said. She was sitting on her bed, her eyes trained on the paper littering her chest-of-drawers. "I have stamps. And envelopes. What do I do?"<p>

"You'll need to leave it unsealed and drop it in a post box. They're outside the servery." Vastra responded. "Make sure to put your prison number in there. If your correspondent doesn't include that number on the envelope when they write back, you won't get it." She'd been watching the clock for the past thirty minutes. Their hour of 'recreational time' was approaching, and Vastra seemed uncharacteristically impatient. As far as Clara knew, the inmates were free to play pool, go to the library, watch television, or go to the gym. She thought she might stay in the cell and write to Danny.

"Can I go to the post box during recreation?"

Vastra's eyes snapped towards hers, wide with something akin to horror.

"Surely you're not thinking of staying in here and writing a _letter_?" She breathed. She sounded almost insulted. Clara floundered.

"Oh…erm, well, I was—"

Vastra leaned forward.

"We get three hours and fifty minutes outside this cell a day. And you want to spend one hour of that in here, doing what you could be doing during the time we're locked in?" She demanded.

Clara almost caved. But the she remembered—with almost a rush of surprise—that she was still the one who knew herself best. She might not know or understand the way of prison yet, but she still knew what she wanted. She was still in control in small ways, and if that was all she had, she'd cling to it.

She spun her watch around her wrist almost nervously.

"Yes. I want to write a letter. It's very important." Clara reiterated. Her voice was firmer than it'd been the entire time, enough so that it seemed to throw Vastra for a moment. Her eyebrows rose in shock.

"Well," she started, and Clara feared she was insulted, but she smiled a moment later. "All right."

Clara was on edge, waiting for more, but it never came. Vastra turned back to the clock.

"Only an hour now." She muttered, more to herself than Clara.

And that was that.

* * *

><p>They had forty minutes until recreation. Vastra seemed too impatient to read or write letters, so she turned to the next best hobby in the room: her cell mate.<p>

"There's no point in keeping what you did a secret, you know," she stated. Her tone was light and conversational, but Clara could tell there was a hint of condescension lurking just below. "You're in a Cat A prison with serial killers, rapists, and terrorists. Everybody knows you've done something bad."

Clara looked up from her letter. She'd only made it twenty words in. What was there to say? She almost preferred Vastra's conversation to the wreck panning out on the page.

She considered her words carefully. Her barrister had told her not to tell anyone what she was in for, but he'd also told her there was a chance she could walk, too. And he'd been dismally wrong about that.

"I was supposed to be in a Cat B." Clara shared, after some hesitation. "Only I was a bit too "manipulative" in court."

Vastra arched an eyebrow.

"Oh? I have to say—never heard that before. Do tell. Let's hear more."

Clara ducked her head and let her hair fall in front of her face. Behind the curtain, she couldn't make out much. Her words were soft.

"I don't really want to talk about what I did."

Vastra snorted.

"Oh, come off it, Oz. I've been playing along, but there's no use manipulating me with your tragic role of guilty inmate. You're a clever criminal—or, in the law's language, a high-risk prisoner. That's why they placed you with me."

Clara shifted the book and paper off her lap. She tucked her hair behind her ear and blinked at Vastra in confusion.

"They didn't tell me that." She said uneasily.

"Of course they didn't. The OMU puts prisoners who fall into two different categories with me, so I can frighten them into submission. There are the murderous psychopaths, they make up the first group—" she held up her index finger. "And then there are the volatile vigilantes." Her middle finger joined her index. Clara watched her lips curl up into a smirk. "So which are you?"

* * *

><p><em>There were red flashing lights and reverberating siren wails. Projected images of maps and quick conversations uttered in code. Sheets of hail pattering onto the roof, soldiers marching in anxious formations around command. And there were words flashing on a black screen.<em>

_Sqn Ldr John Smith—squadron to base C._

_She hadn't been anxious for even a moment before. But the minute her eyes scanned over that combination of letters, she felt something shift inside of her. She shoved past commanding officers and pushed her way to the Air Commodore._

_"No!" She said, and that was the beginning of everything. She felt at least twenty pairs of eyes weighing on her. "No! You cannot dispatch that squadron!"_

_"I'm _sorry_?"_

_"They're mine! It's part of my flying wing! I say when and where they go, and they are _not_going tonight!"_

_"You need to remember your rank, Oswald. Step down."_

_He went to circle around her. She took a step to the right, barring his passage. The room was quivering._

_"Call them down." She ordered, lowly and fiercely. When the Air Commodore only laughed, she took a step closer to him. "CALL THEM DOWN!"_

_It was quiet then except for the echoing of the sirens and the fizzy words coming over the radio. Clara flinched when Danny set his hand on her shoulder. He'd hurried over the moment she began making a scene._

_"Clara," he said gently. "Come on."_

_"Get your Wing Commander under control, Pink." The Air Commodore spat._

_Clara turned and looked up at Danny. She was choking beneath her panic._

_"Danny, he's sending John's squadron!" She wasn't thinking about her words. She was just thinking about the conversation she'd just had with these same officers only minutes before. About how this was surely a death mission. "He's mine! He can't send him! He's _mine_!"_

_Danny rubbed her shoulder, his face twisted with sadness. But Clara could tell he'd already known. He looked towards the Air Commodore._

_"Arnold, can't we send another squadron? You know how well Clara's men work underneath her, Smith in particular. Why dispose of a working unit?"_

_"It was a calculated decision." He replied, coolly and indifferently. "Now get out of my way, Oswald. Or you'll be dismissed."_

_She felt Danny's hip press against hers, his pistol grinding against her hipbone. She glanced towards him for just a moment, but in that moment of eye contact, a million things transferred between them. And then Clara turned and punched him in the jaw, hard. Hard enough that he went sprawling backwards (although Clara saw him throw himself backwards with a bit more gusto than her hit could've possibly caused). Once he was lying on his back, she stood over his body. She reached down and undid his weapon. He made of show of reaching to grab her hands and wrestle with her, but in the end, he'd only wanted to caress her wrist. She kissed him with her eyes before she lowered her fist back to his skull, in just the right place to 'knock him unconscious'. She made sure the hit wasn't too hard. He played dead beneath her._

_She was surprisingly steady as she turned and faced the Air Commodore. Everyone's breath was lodged somewhere in their chest. It made the room seem strangely weightless, like it was suspended in a moment right before tragedy falls. That breathless moment of _no, this can't happen to me.

_"STOP."_

_She didn't even look at what she was doing. She kept her eyes on the Air Commodore as she pressed the side button and ejected the magazine. She leaned over Danny and pulled out whatever ammo she could find._

_"WE'LL FIRE!"_

_Empty threats and empty heads. That was all they were. She filled the magazine and then slammed it down into her palm, snapping it back into place. She gripped the gun firmly in her hand and then lowered the safety lever with her thumb. Her wrist was shaking just slightly as she righted the weapon. She could feel her eyes searing._

_"You'll send him back here, or I'll _make you."_ She ordered._

_The Air Commodore made a move for his own weapon, but Clara reached up and pulled back the slide on her weapon. She re-positioned it._

_"One more move and I fire!"_

_Everyone took her seriously this time. They lifted their hands into the air and looked around at each other. Clara felt Danny's foot bump against her ankle, but only just. No one else noticed._

_"We will not follow your rules, Oswald. Stop this before it gets too far. We know you're upset. But he's already been deployed. There's nothing we can do. His coordinates are privileged; the only way you'd find him would be if you somehow got control over everyone in this room, but you alone don't have the manpower to—" he stopped. Clara saw the realization of what he'd just suggested pass over his face._

_Clara lowered the gun just slightly. And then she smiled._

_"Thank you, Arnold. _Thank you_."_

* * *

><p>"So?" Vastra pressed. "Which are you? First group or second?"<p>

Clara closed her hand over John's wristwatch. She looked up and met Vastra's eyes.

"Both."

* * *

><p><em>Danny,<em>

_Prison could be the army, except the only thing people are fighting for here is themselves. It is not enough._

* * *

><p>"I'll think I'll come after all." Clara said. She folded her twenty-word letter and set it aside. Vastra looked at her differently now, like she respected her more, and Clara couldn't help but feel validated by it.<p>

"You're welcome to come to the library with Jenny and me." She offered. "We're researching a ring of child pedophiles that might be transferred in sometime this month."

Clara furrowed her brow.

"Uh…why?"

"So we can punish them, of course." Vastra responded. She rose right as a screw yelled down the corridor. "Coming?"

They'd made it halfway through the common area when they heard sudden shrieks. Clara slowed and looked up at Vastra uncertainly. Vastra waved it off and motioned for her to keep moving, but the room filled soon after that with the sound of screaming and whistles. People began to panic.

"Christ," Vastra sighed. She grabbed Clara's forearm and tugged, weaving them through the pandemonium.

"ALL INMATES MUST RETURN TO THEIR CELLS."

Vastra looked up at the speaker spewing the command.

"Is that so? Oh, lovely," she groaned. She looked to Clara. "Go back to our cell. I'll find out what's happening. I've just got to get to Jenny."

Clara looked around her, overwhelmed by the people closing in. The room seemed to be made up of a squirming orange mass. She glanced back to Vastra to nod, but she'd already disappeared.

Around halfway between the common room and her cell, she reverted back to her training automatically. She used her elbows to maneuver through people, dodging opened doors and trash bins, until finally she spotted her corridor. She was nearing the mouth of it when something darted forward from a side hallway, effectively entering her path of motion. She'd been moving too quickly; she crashed right into it before she could stop herself.

Judging by the warmth and the sound of a rapid heart, it wasn't a something. It was a_someone._ A chest, in particular.

Clara jumped back. She was about to mumble something and push past them, but then she peered up and saw who it was she'd bumped into. Her throat closed up for a moment and she stared, wide-eyed.

"I-I'm so, so sorry," Clara choked out. Her eyes were so wide she was sure she looked ridiculous. She stared at a vague point on the inmate's orange shirt, afraid to meet his steel eyes. The urge to flee was great, but she felt that would've been a mistake. She held her ground—all too aware of how _closely _she was standing to him—and then finally craned her head up.

He wasn't smiling, but he didn't look particularly furious, either. His eyes bore intently into hers.

"Don't be."

Her lips parted in surprise, but before she could process it any further, he turned and continued through another doorway. Clara stood still in the sea of people until a screw screamed at her to get moving, and then she shook her head and hurried back to her cell.

* * *

><p>Vastra was one of the last to return.<p>

Clara was staring blankly at her letter, still not sure how to go on. She welcomed the distraction.

"So what'd you find out?" She asked.

Vastra seemed troubled by something. She sat down heavily on the edge of her bed and wrung her green hands uneasily.

"The Doctor's attacked an inmate." She muttered, dazed.

Clara waited for more, but it never came. She blinked.

"Erm…is that…something new?"

Vastra lifted her head.

"You know the male prisoner Jenny showed you at lunch? The—"

"Yes," Clara interrupted quickly. Vastra lifted an eyebrow. Clara's thoughts drifted between the man she'd seen in line and the man she'd just run straight into. "Uh, yes. The…older man. Yes." She cleared her throat. "He…hurt somebody?"

"Yes. For the first time in twenty years." Vastra answered. "Everyone's so scared of him that no one's tried to hurt him, and he never went out of his way to hurt them either, until just now."

Clara realized with a sinking feeling that he must've been running from the screws when they crossed paths. Why else would he have been in the women's wing?

"Why? Do you know who?"

Vastra looked up. She seemed generously shaken up, although Clara wasn't sure why.

"A woman. He only knocked a few teeth loose, but she's _terrified _out of her wits. Something he said really shook her."

Clara shifted uncomfortably. Her heart rate picked up, like she'd just narrowly dodged a bullet.

"Why? Were they fighting?"

Vastra shrugged.

"As far as I know, he didn't even know her. It was Jessica. She's one of the tougher inmates—bit of a bully. You might've seen her. She's bald and she's got a goose tattoo on her head." Vastra pointed at her own head, indifferent to the way Clara's eyes suddenly widened. "But, I'll tell you one thing. The Doctor's got access to every file in this prison. He knows everything about everyone. And if he went out of his way to terrify Jessica into submission, she's done something terrible." Vastra shook her head, troubled. "I just don't know why he's waited until now. She's been in this prison for at least seven years."

Clara reached for the cup of water beside her bed. She took a deep drink and tried to ignore the way her knees were quaking. She thought back to that morning in the exercise yard, when Jessica had threatened her. She held her cup between both her hands and looked at Vastra.

"You said she's a bully, right? Does—does 'the Doctor' target bullies?"

"Like I said. He hasn't done a violent thing in twenty years." Vastra reiterated. She inclined her head to the side thoughtfully. "Actually, we don't even know if he's _ever _done a violent thing. Not with any real certainty." She leaned back against the wall, her legs hanging over the side of the bed. "It's all very strange. It definitely gives me something to keep an eye on."

Clara ran her forefinger over the rim of her cup.

"Yeah. Definitely." She agreed.

* * *

><p>After consuming every bit of her dinner, she pulled the letter back into her lap and kept going.<p>

_Danny,_

_Prison could be the army, except the only thing people are fighting for here is themselves. It is not enough._

_But I could be wrong about that. _


	3. Adaptation

**A/n:** I'll be out of the country and therefore internetless starting the 25th, but I'm adding 1 to 2 (unsure yet) chapters of this fic to my queue on tumblr to post while I'm away. I'll post them all to FF once I'm back, but if you want to stay up to date in the meantime, it's all going to the "fic: banged up" tag on tumblr (and obviously my blog- there's a link to it on my profile). Thank you to all who read and reviewed- I really appreciate it and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

><p>It'd been an alarming four days since she'd last showered, so when their cells were opened that night around eight, Clara was breathless with relief.<p>

"Thank God," she exhaled. She rose to her feet and grabbed the toiletries she'd had waiting out for the past two hours. "One more night and I might scratch my scalp off."

She'd made it to the mouth of the cell when she realized Vastra hadn't moved. She turned and looked at her uncertainly.

"Shower?" She prompted. When Vastra pursed her lips, Clara felt her heart plummet. She lowered the items in her arms, horrified. "No. No, no. What?"

"They give each corridor twenty minutes to shower," she began. Clara waited for more, her eyebrows practically kissing her hairline. Vastra nodded towards the hordes of people walking past. "There's only twelve showers."

Clara's eyes bulged almost comically. She didn't spare a second; she snatched the towel they'd issued her and took off, all but shoving her way through the crowds. All she knew was that she couldn't stand to go another day without bathing, and if she had to incapacitate people to make sure that didn't happen, well…she'd fought for lesser things.

When she approached the showering room, she found herself at the tail-end of a forty-person queue, most already in towels. Clara looked down at her clothed body and then to the towel in her hand, realizing she probably should've asked Vastra for more details.

"Oz!"

Clara spun around in relief, but it wasn't Vastra calling to her. It was her counterpart. Jenny hurried over, ignoring the crossed mutterings of those she pushed past. She too was in her towel only, clothes nowhere in sight. She beamed as she stopped in front of Clara.

"You've survived!" She celebrated sweetly. "I knew you would. They always put the very bravest with Vastra."

Clara smiled tightly. She leaned in closer to Jenny and lowered her voice.

"I was supposed to undress _before_, wasn't I?"

Jenny smiled sympathetically. She reached up and patted her shoulder. "Yes, but it's okay. Almost everyone does this their first day. Don't be too upset if you don't get to shower—you usually don't until you can find a mate."

Clara licked her lips and angled her head to the side, her face pursing in confusion.

"A…mate. Like a normal mate mate, or like a…_mate _mate?"

Jenny blinked.

"A shower mate." She clarified. But Clara was still a bit confused.

"So…the latter, then?" She summarized slowly.

Jenny parted her lips, befuddled, but then a green hand settled lightly on her bare shoulder. Clara looked up at Vastra, partially relieved.

"The type of mate depends entirely on the two." She answered coyly. She turned her gaze to the long, overwhelming queue and then glanced down at her plastic black watch. She looked down at Jenny. "We'll get in, but only just."

Clara let out a relieved sigh. She beamed after a moment.

"That's a relief, because I was worried I'd—"

The look Vastra was giving her made her words halt.

"What?" She demanded. She was getting sick of surprises.

"Jenny and I get to go ahead of Lucy. She owes us." Vastra explained. She pointed towards the front of the line, at a woman already waiting to the side, her eyes on the two women. Clara drew in a short breath and tried her hardest to keep from rolling her eyes.

"Right," she muttered underneath her breath. "It _has _been that sort of day."

She dropped her items to the floor and extended her towel for Jenny.

"Will you hold this while I change?" She asked tiredly.

Jenny smiled.

"Of course I will."

Clara could feel her stunned indifference—the odd numbness that'd fallen over her a month ago—starting to lift. She didn't know if it was just because of the situation, of the fact that she wasn't even in control of her own _body_ the way she needed to be, but she was feeling reckless and testy. She could very easily see herself storming to the front of the line and causing a scene, but she couldn't do that. Her barrister had made it painfully clear to her that any instances of her old self would cause her misery in prison. She'd tried to listen to him, and it hadn't been difficult at first, but every hour she spent here she became more and more _angry_. And it was suddenly possible to feel that anger. She didn't know if she was frightened of herself or simply thrilled to feel anything at all.

She yanked her shirt over her head and then quickly stepped out of her trousers, reaching immediately for the towel in Jenny's arms. She wrapped it around herself and then reached underneath to pull her underwear off—but at that moment whistles and shouts erupted. Clara turned, startled, to see a group of men passing by the entrance to their hall. This time, she really did roll her eyes.

"You're coming out of your shell," Vastra commented. Clara could feel her eyes on her as she worked her bra off. She bundled up her clothes in her arms and then tightened the towel around her body. Vastra looked impressed. "And you're a prettylittle thing! You were hiding all that underneath your uniform?"

Jenny backhanded Vastra's shoulder crossly, but she smiled a moment later. Clara crossed her arms.

"I'm dirty, cross, and starving. And I think I'd kill a man for a shower."

"And that means a lot coming from a prisoner." Jenny supplied, giggling afterwards at her own joke.

"I think the shock's wearing off." Vastra said. She seemed vaguely humored. "You know, Oz, you're welcome to join us. Just this once."

Clara shifted her items to her left arm and then reached up, gathering her dirty hair in her right.

"Join you? As in—all three of us in one shower?"

"Precisely. Though we'll only have five minutes…unfortunately."

"Oi!" Jenny protested. She turned to Clara. "_Ignore _her. She's just poking fun."

Clara hesitated.

"It's very sweet of you to—"

Her words were trampled over by Lucy. She approached them nervously.

"Madame Vastra, you'd better come now—they're going to shut the showers off early tonight. Something about a schedule issue with Hall 6."

Clara looked to Jenny in surprise. _Madame _Vastra? But Jenny wasn't looking towards her. Vastra nodded firmly.

"Of course. Jenny, come along. Oz—are you in or out?"

Clara froze when put on the spot. She felt like the gears in her mind weren't turning the way they normally did in tense situations. But she did know she was angry.

"They're cutting the showers off early?" Clara asked. She didn't think to monitor her volume. She only vaguely noticed that people were looking her way. "Can they do that? Just cut off showers? Can they do any of this? Don't we have the basic human right be clean? When I was in induction they let me shower _once _the whole week I was there. It's inhumane and _cruel_. We—"

"All right, we get it," Vastra hissed, her palm warm over Clara's lips. She leaned closer and breathed her next words so only they could hear it. Her eyes were serious. "_Shut. Up." _

Clara struggled with her pride. She nodded after a painful moment. Jenny reached forward and took her hand.

"You need the shower, Oz." She looked up at a screw as they passed. "Don't mind this one. Still scattered. Bless."

Vastra warned her with her eyes the entire walk to the only empty shower. Clara wasn't really sure how she felt about being naked that close with two relative strangers, but she realized quickly that it was either two relative strangers or two complete strangers. There were at least two people in every curtain-less stall, most furiously scrubbing, a few laughing. Clara wasn't a stranger to other women's naked bodies, but that many in such an enclosed space was a bit shocking.

She was suddenly shy when it came time to peel her towel off, but then Vastra turned the water on, and she forgot how to do everything but surge forward. She wedged herself between the back wall and the stream, slipping around in the rubber shower shoes. The spray was weak and pathetic, but she managed to completely soak her hair through and scrub it clean with shampoo. She kept her eyes averted politely as Vastra washed Jenny's back for her, entirely at ease with the situation in a way Clara wasn't yet. After Clara pulled her soap-less hair out of the spray and set about scrubbing her body, Vastra turned to her and struck up a conversation, like their hands hadn't just accidentally grazed basically every part of each other's body.

"You'll regret what you said out there." Vastra called. She spoke just loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the water without anyone beyond their little group hearing it. Clara risked stepping closer, her arm moving slower over her leg as she washed.

"What? Why?"

"Only thing they fear more than inspections? Mutiny."

The bar of soap in her palm slipped and went flying out, hitting Jenny in the knee and then landing on the dirty shower floor. Clara was too distracted to even notice for a moment.

"Oh." She said. She thought back to Vastra's words earlier, about the type of people they put with Vastra. Then she thought about her barrister's passionate insisting that she keep her crimes a secret. She felt nauseated and the heat from the shower wasn't helping. She took a step from the stream and looked down at her pink bar of soap, drowning in the dirty water. She'd only just moved towards it when all the showers shut off, leaving most every woman in the room crying out in protest.

"Don't touch it," Vastra warned Clara, her eyes also on her bar of soap. "You'll have to buy another on canteen."

Clara was shivering the entire walk back to the cell, even after she warmed up.

* * *

><p>Her wet hair dripped water onto her letter to Danny, so she had to toss it.<p>

She didn't want him to worry it was tears.

She felt an odd sort of camaraderie form between her and Vastra as they dried off and dressed together, a type of unity she thought she'd never feel again. That sense of togetherness was the first thing she fell in love with in the army. She'd despised everything about it at the start—until she met John and Danny. And then she'd worked her way up. Once she was the one in control, she loved it. She flourished. She had people under her command, two best friends she would've given her life for in a second, and everything was aligned in her universe. She knew upon her arrest that the thing she would miss most of all wouldn't be the control. It'd be the sense of family. She'd never felt her mum's presence inside her more than she did in moments she was rousing up her squadrons. Leading men into battlefields was nothing more than telling a child a goodnight story, when it really came down to it. And she felt that same sense of togetherness then, as she watched Vastra rub her towel over her short, wet hair.

"What?" Vastra asked.

Clara sat down on the edge of her bed after tugging her shirt all the way on. She reached behind her and pulled her wet hair over her shoulder.

"I just wanted to thank you. For the shower."

Vastra stared at her for a beat. Then she dropped the towel to the floor and turned, so she was staring fully at Clara. She sat down on her own bed with an air of finality.

"Thank me by being honest."

Clara winced. She shifted uncomfortably and then busied herself with putting her watch back on.

"I'm not supposed to."

"Says who?"

"My barrister."

"Yes, well, he's done a great job of keeping you safe so far." Vastra said sarcastically. Clara said nothing, though she recognized Vastra was right. "We'll keep it simple. No fuss, no mess. I'll ask you a question and you answer it in only one word. As long as you're honest, it's enough."

Clara pulled her fingers through her wet hair nervously. She considered Vastra.

"Okay." She finally said.

After all, what did she have to lose? Vastra was the only person in this prison who was even somewhat looking out for her, although Clara still wasn't convinced she wouldn't throw her to the dogs if it ever came down to it. Very soon now she wouldn't need anyone but herself, but until she learned all there was to learn, she needed a teacher. She was amazingly self-reliant, but in order to get to that point, she had to first understand who she was in the context of this place. She had to know the rules before she could rewrite them.

"What got you landed here?" Vastra asked. Clara hadn't expected her to beat around the bush.

She hesitated. She wracked her brains for a way to express it all in just one word.

"Both?" She finally asked hesitantly.

Vastra arched an eyebrow.

"I wasn't aware there was more than one thing. Start with the worst offense first." She prompted.

Clara lifted her left hand to push back her hair, but she was startled for a moment to hear a soft _tick, tick, tick. _She realized it was the watch, and when she brought her wrist to her ear, it was almost like there was another pulse there. Another heart ticking away beside hers. And there had been. Once.

She closed her eyes.

"Murder."

She counted ten ticks before Vastra replied.

"I assumed. How many counts?"

She let the ticks tell it. _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…_she waited.

"Eleven."

Vastra whistled.

"All by your hand? And at once? I'm a singles girl, myself. I like to savor it one at a time, don't like to feel rushed." Vastra shared. Clara still couldn't open her eyes. "Weapon?"

She felt a rush of comfort when her own heartbeat synced with the watch's ticking. She thought quickly to Sundays in green fields, her head resting on John's chest, his heart ticking away with hers, Danny chatting underneath the sun about something or another…

Clara opened her eyes. When the room came back into focus, the illusion shattered. She let her wrist fall back into her lap.

"People."

Vastra grinned hugely. She leaned forward, her forearms on her thighs.

"And I'm guessing this is where it gets interesting." She commented. "Feel free to explain with more than one word. Do you need to?"

Clara stared down at the dingy tile. She shook her head.

"No." She admitted. She looked back to Vastra. "Mutiny."

Vastra clasped her hands together in her lap.

"Mutiny." She repeated.

Clara took a deep breath. She let it fill her lungs and then she held it in them for a moment, like she might gain more from it that way. She slowly exhaled.

"Yes. Mutiny." She affirmed. She felt dazed. "And do you know what I regret?"

"I'm guessing it's not the mutiny, judging by the expression on your face."

"No." Clara agreed. She thought back to the bloodshed, the race in the sky, the horrifying realization. And she knew, had she the chance to do it over again, there was only one thing she'd want to go differently.

"What I regret more than anything—what keeps me awake in my dreams—is that we never achieved what we set out to do."

But that had been a bit too much. She felt her throat ache and burn. She pulled her legs up onto her bed and slowly curled up on her side, so her back was to Vastra. She pressed the watch face to her cheek and breathed in time.

"There's something in you, Oz," Vastra spoke up a little while later. Her voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "I saw it in you the moment we met. Something in you inspires people. I just haven't decided what exactly it inspires yet."

Clara stared at the wall beside her bed and didn't respond, but she already knew. It was foolishness.

"They'll punish you for it, you know. Your barrister was right."

Clara inhaled slowly and deeply. She felt her stomach expand. She counted how long she could hold her breath, as if having control over something like that might make things easier. All it did was leave her lightheaded.

"Yeah," she finally said. "I know."

Vastra didn't slap her that night. She called her name from across the room, not even bothering to rise from her bed. Clara came into consciousness slowly enough to hear the words she'd been sobbing in her sleep.

_I didn't bring him home—I didn't bring him home. _

She cried the entire night, her face resting atop her wrist. Vastra ignored it and drifted in and out of sleep for hours, but around five AM, Clara heard her huff. Her mattress squeaked. It only took her three steps to reach Clara's bed. She sat on the edge like a haggard mother.

"You can't do this every night. If anyone sees you, they'll give you hell."

"I've already got it."

"No you don't. Trust me." Vastra snapped. "Just do what I do. Wait until lunch and then talk to Jenny. It'll help."

Somehow, the thought of Jenny was comforting. Perhaps just because she'd been the warmest person she'd met so far. But that still didn't change the past.

"I can't fix it." She whispered. Her words shivered. "He's dead, and I can't change him back." She choked on the words that spilled from her next. "It was my job to protect him."

"And you failed. You let him die and you can't change it. But guess what? He's dead. Whoever he is, he's dead, and he doesn't care that you're lying awake crying for him. Self-pity will get you nowhere."

It was her sleep deprivation. She knew it had to be. It caused every bit of anger she'd been storing away since her arrest to flare terribly in one quick moment. She sat up and turned, pinning Vastra with wet, accusing eyes.

"Don't talk to me like that. How dare you talk to me like that! You don't know—you have no _idea_!" Her anger cumulated with her hand rising to smack at Vastra, but she didn't let her get that far. She reached up and grabbed onto Clara's hand tightly. She squeezed to the point of pain.

"Feel that?" She asked. Clara tugged furiously. "That's anger. And you're going to need every bit of it to survive."

She let go of her hand and rose up from the bed. Clara's cheeks were hot underneath the wetness from her tears.

"You're welcome." Vastra told her coldly.

Clara shook underneath the thin blanket until breakfast arrived.

* * *

><p>She was torn apart come morning. She ran to the only thing she had left: her books.<p>

She spent her morning quietly rereading_ Meditations. _She wasn't sure how Vastra felt about the disaster the night prior, so she decided she wouldn't speak to her until she spoke first. She didn't have to wait long.

"You look a lot better."

Clara glanced up. She was sitting cross-legged on top of her bed, the book resting on her calves. She touched the words she'd been reading over and over, committing to memory, considering.

"Marcus Aurelius said: _You have __power over your mind - not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength._" She smiled genuinely. "I like that."

"Somehow, Oz, it doesn't surprise me that you like that."

It wasn't a compliment. Clara didn't care.

"Thanks."

* * *

><p>She was single-minded during lunch.<p>

Luckily, Vastra wasn't too cross with her.

"I need to phone someone." Clara said.

"And I need to locate these pedophiles and drink their blood, but we all don't get what we want." Vastra murmured distractedly. She and Jenny had spent the entire meal scanning the crowds. As far as Clara could tell, it was extremely ridiculous that they placed the volatile vigilantes with Vastra, as she was proving to be the queen of all vigilantes.

She voiced that thought to Jenny and Vastra—she felt braver about speaking her mind after her relationship with Vastra survived the strained night they had. Vastra waved her hand.

"I'm reformed." She claimed airily. She perked up. "Quick. On the left, below the clock. I think that's Dean Traiger. Mark down his associates."

Clara looked at her doubtfully as her and Jenny took quick notes on the man.

"Right." She said.

Vastra proved to be no help at all, beyond murmuring something about a private cash account, so Clara decided to take matters into her own hands. She was starting to learn her way around the prison slowly, but she still had no idea who she needed to talk to about her finances, and she didn't really want to wait until recreation, either. So she decided to approach a screw during outdoors time.

"Excuse me," she said. The woman turned her focus away from the casually bickering friend group she'd been observing. "I was wondering where I'd direct inquiries about my private cash account?"

The screw snorted.

"I'm sure you have been, love."

Clara watched her turn and walk away without another word. She threw her head back and sighed.

"Problem?"

"Quite a few, actually." She snapped, before she could stop herself. She winced before she turned slowly around to face whoever was talking to her. She automatically regarded him suspiciously, as it was a rather malicious looking man. He was significantly older than her, but he lacked the appeal that Clara usually saw in older men. He just looked sleazy.

"Well, let's start with one, and then we'll work our down the list." He suggested.

Clara crossed her arms over her chest uncomfortably.

"Thanks, but they're all easy to manage alone."

"Oh yeah?" He asked. She didn't reply. "Let me tell you something, birdie. There are very few nice men here. So if one comes up to you and offers his help, it's your duty to yourself to take it."

Clara was caught between her desire to slap him across the face and her desire to stay enemy-free. She thought quickly to Jessica. And even though she knew there was no way yesterday's occurrences were anything but a coincidence—she couldn't help but feel so curious it made her reckless. If this man threatened her, would he show up injured by lights out? There was no reason for anyone to protect her—especially not someone she'd never strictly met—but she was just vain enough to wonder.

Fortunately, she didn't trust her vanity enough to try picking a fight.

"I did not mean to offend you." She drew out tiredly. "I was just curious about the private cash accounts. That's all."

"Now you want my help?" He scoffed. "Well, it's too fucking late now. You can't come crawling back to me now, you bitch."

Clara lifted an eyebrow.

"Uh…"

"What? You don't have anything to say?" He demanded.

Clara pursed her lips, confused.

"Erm, no, actually. Which is surprising if you know me."

He drew closer to her. Too close. Clara immediately took a huge step backwards to counteract his action.

"How long have you been here?" He asked her. There was a mad glint in his eyes that made Clara uncomfortable. "Long enough to long for someone between your thighs?"

The crassness of it made her grimace. She took another step backwards.

"Not _nearly _long enough for that."

He moved forward.

"I can see it in your eyes. You're desperate for it." He insisted. He nodded maniacally. Clara looked around her nervously. She didn't want to have to hit him. She wasn't sure whether she'd get a mark on her record for it or not. And she couldn't afford to be labeled any higher risk than she already was.

"Erm…I think that might be repulsion you're talking about? In my eyes?" Clara tried. She curled her hands into fists automatically.

"Why are you lying to yourself?" He demanded, loudly and furiously. He advanced forward, indifferent to the fact that she only retreated. She was about to resign herself to the fact that she'd have to hit him when she spotted something she'd missed before. As he drew closer, it was impossible to miss him. He towered behind the leering man—completely out of his line of vision but perfectly visible in Clara's—and cocked his head to the side inquisitively. He met her eyes and stared, his expression almost owlish.

Clara stared back, wide-eyed, unsure what he was trying to communicate. And then the leering man reached forward, as if to grope her, and her face must've said all he was looking for.

He extended his index finger and stabbed the man in the shoulder, hard.

"Excuse me," he called. His Scottish accent was in full display this time; she hadn't really noticed it the day prior. "Are you harassing my bonny girl?"

"_Your_—" his words died on his lips as soon as he spun around. He wilted under the man's glower. He actually seemed to shrink down.

The man—the Doctor, as Vastra had called him—turned his focus to Clara.

"Is he bothering you, Clara?"

It was the first time anyone had said her first name since she entered jail. She felt her skin tingle and her heart jolt with surprise.

"Not! I'm _not _bothering her!" The man quickly yelped. "I'm not! I wasn't!"

The Doctor's eyes shifted to cold malice so quickly that it sent a shiver down Clara's spine. He took a step closer and looked down at the man, his eyebrows practically touching his eyes.

"Good." He whispered. "Don't _ever _let me catch you doing it again."

The man shuffled off without shooting even one look back at them. Clara looked up, wrestling with what to say—only to find the Doctor was already walking away. The words she'd been building turned to dust in her mouth as she gaped after him. She shifted her weight from foot to foot as she tried to decide what to do. In a moment of recklessness, she chose to follow after him.

His legs were so much longer that she had to jog to catch up.

"Wait!" She called, before she could talk herself out of it.

He stopped walking, but he didn't turn around. He seemed to be simply waiting. Clara lost her edge the closer she got, until finally, she was standing beside him. She fiddled with her fingers nervously as she turned to face him.

"Yes?" He asked.

She got the impression bluntness would be received better than social tact.

"Are you guarding me?" She blurted.

Blood rushed to her face so quickly that she could _feel _her pulse in her cheeks. He regarded her coolly.

"My, my. What a lovely ego you have."

She was frazzled.

"Thanks," she said, before she really processed what he said. His upper lip curled up in amusement. And then he set off again. Clara stared after him for a second, and then she quickly caught up. She struggled to match his pace.

"How did you know my name?" She asked.

"I know everybody's name." He answered, his eyes still chained forward.

Clara grew confident every second he didn't seem to be attacking her. She was certain Vastra had been mistaken; he didn't seem harmful at all. But then she remembered what he'd done to Jessica. Perhaps he just wasn't harmful towards _her_.

"Do you beat up bullies for everybody?" She shot back.

He turned and looked down at her. He looked genuinely amused, even if he wasn't smiling. There was a certain glint in his eye that Clara had no trouble reading.

"No. Just for those I find physically endearing."

It was so honest she stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide and lips parted. Amazingly, he stopped as well. He turned and looked down at her.

"What?" Clara asked.

"Did you acquire hearing damage in the RAF?"

She blinked.

"_What_?" She repeated, startled.

"Honestly, Clara, I don't know how much plainer to make it."

She pointed at him. "_You _think I'm physically endearing?"

"Your nose delights me. I've been trying to decide what's wrong with it."

She was quiet as she tried to sort through the insults and the compliments. She wasn't sure which was which. The insults were uttered like compliments but the compliments were uttered as insults. She was having a hard time finding a category for a type of person who just openly said things like that. But then she remembered that this was a man who'd been in prison for twenty years, possibly in exile, judging by the way people avoided him. He was probably a category all in his own. And that was dangerous.

"Okay…" she said uneasily. "As far as I know, nothing's wrong with it."

"I'm still researching." He responded without hesitation. He reached forward and gently grabbed her hand so he could lift her wrist up. He examined her watch and then dropped her arm back to her side. "Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow, lovely wrists."

"Lovely _wrists_? Is that a nickname?" She demanded. "Because I honestly prefer bonny girl."

He looked at her for a long three seconds, like he was examining her for something. And then he turned and walked off. Clara was too startled to follow after him.

* * *

><p>She was locked inside her own head for the rest of the outdoors time. She spent a while walking around, searching for the Scottish man, but he was nowhere to be found. She sat down on the grass and rested her forehead on her knees. That was where she stayed until time was over.<p>

* * *

><p>"I've got most every one of the pedophiles located." Vastra greeted her.<p>

Clara sat down on her bed, suddenly exhausted enough to take a nap. She moved her copy of _Meditations _and leaned back. She stared up at the concrete ceiling.

"Congratulations." She muttered distractedly.

"Did you figure out your private cash balance?"

She'd forgotten. In the oddity of the afternoon, she'd actually _forgotten_. She wasn't sure if that frightened her or excited her. She'd been so desperate to talk to Danny, to tell him about her dreams, because she was certain that'd be the only way to make them go away. But she'd done all right on her own. Better than she thought she would, anyway.

"No." She admitted. "No one would help me."

"Oh." Clara could feel Vastra's eyes on her. "Well, don't look so worried. Jenny'll take care of it during recreation."

"I'm not worried about that." She answered honestly. She lifted herself up on her elbows. She bit her lip as she struggled with whether or not to say anything to Vastra. She was just so used to baring it all to John and Danny. She guessed that was just something else she'd have to get over. "You know the Doctor?"

"Not personally, no."

Clara ignored her. "Does he have any…shower mates?"

Vastra lifted an eyebrow.

"Why?" She asked slowly. She straightened in surprise. "Are you thinking of asking him to be _yours_? Because if you want to kill yourself, I can suggest at least ten safer ways to go about it."

Clara wanted to continue on with her questioning, but Vastra's statement halted that.

"Safer ways to _kill myself_? Somehow I doubt that."

Vastra shifted her notebook from her lap. She gained a suspicious air.

"Why are you so curious about him?"

Clara scoffed.

"Shut up. I'm not." She averted her eyes when Vastra looked at her doubtfully. "Okay, maybe I am a bit. Just because he's got a…reputation, right? I mean, does everyone think of him like that? Surely he's got friends, people he's nice to? People he, I dunno, helps? Or talks to?"

Vastra's confused expression turned quickly to pity.

"I know you're scared, and part of the process of adjusting to prison is looking for someone strong to protect you, but he's not interested. Although I admire the guts it takes to pick _him _as your first choice for prison husband."

Clara shifted impatiently.

"That's not what this is. I don't need someone strong to look after me. I'm strong. I can look after myself. I'm just _curious_."

Vastra didn't seem convinced, but she dropped the pitying look at least.

"Well, perhaps this will satiate your curiosity: the Doctor doesn't help people. Not anyone, not ever."

Clara shut her eyes as she inhaled slowly.

"That's what I was afraid of."


	4. Rebels

**A/n: **A thousand thank yous to those reading and reviewing!

* * *

><p>She was dreaming of that night, but it wasn't the fire or the wreckage she was focusing on. It was what <em>wasn't <em>there. The lack of his voice on the radio, the lack of his body stumbling from the ruins, the lack of his arms around her. She remembered falling still for the first time since it'd all began. She remembered falling from her own aircraft, flanked by a few of the strongest who'd chosen to follow her into the fiery sky. She remembered the bite of the rocky ground as she was shoved to her knees, the pull of her shoulders as her arms were restrained behind her, the dig of someone's kneecap into her lower back. Her face was shoved into the gravel so hard that she'd felt her skin tear and rip. She hadn't cried then. She hadn't cried as she dug the gravel out of her shredded skin, alone in a dark cell. She hadn't even cried when she missed his funeral. But she cried as she dreamt of it.

She woke herself up this time. She must've been quietly weeping, because Vastra was snoring gently in her bed, unperturbed. She pried her wet cheek off her pillow and sat up slowly. She'd just shakily reached for the glass of water on the floor beside her bed when she heard someone clear their throat.

At first, the sight of him illuminated by the red safety lights made her freeze in terror. She only knew that he wasn't supposed to be there, that he was dangerous, that he could hurt her—but then she noticed the distance he kept from her door, the way his eyes were wide and echoing with something that looked like curious concern, the tense posture of his body. He wasn't looking at her like a predator would. He was looking at her like he was just as uneasy with the situation as she was.

"You were crying."

She pulled her arm back up, forgetting the water. She set her hands in her lap and stared at him for a few long moments, unsure how to react. He waited patiently.

"Yes," she finally agreed. Her voice was slow and measured. She paid rapt attention to every shift in his posture and his facial expression. She was having a hard time understanding his intentions, and that made him impossible to control or even predict.

His eyes moved from hers. She watched him scan his eyes down her body, but he didn't seem to be doing it for pleasure. There was no lust in his eyes, only deep interest. She didn't think there was much interesting about her at all. She wondered what he'd do when he realized that, too.

"Why?" He finally asked. He lifted his hand to his face a moment later. She watched him press the heel of his hand to his forehead with chagrin. "No, not—why. I know why. Why did I ask why? It's John. He's why you're here. He's why you've come."

Clara sat up straighter. She felt her heart clench at the sound of his name.

"John?" She asked sharply. She watched him slowly lower his hand. "Did you know John?"

"Yes. He used to write to me in here. He would write the most beautiful things about you. I wondered…but now I see. At least some things."

She forgot to be cautious or afraid. She swung her legs off the bed and stood. She padded her way slowly towards the door. She peeked at him through the open, barred window.

"What do you mean?" She demanded. "Who are you?"

_Did he love me? He says he did. But…did he? I want to believe he did. I want to believe he loved me enough to forgive me. _

"How did you get here?" She asked instead. "Aren't all the doors locked?"

He smiled, but it was sad and sarcastic and not at all happy.

"You ask a lot of questions, don't you? I suppose it's how you learn to manipulate."

It was an offhanded comment. Clara went up in arms anyway.

"I do _not _manipulate." She bit out, slowly and dangerously. That word always made her heart drop. It was a byproduct of her horrid court sessions.

He lifted his hands defensively.

"It was a compliment, Clara. It wasn't an insult. And as for how I got here—I can go anywhere I want in this prison. Except out." He paused. She watched his eyes dart from her mouth to her eyes. "I wanted to ask you something. But you were asleep."

She reached up and pushed her hair back from her face, overwhelmed and confused.

"Ask _me _something? You've been here for like twenty years. What would you want to ask _me_?"

"Still need to make that phone call?"

Clara froze. She eyed him uncertainty.

"What?"

"The phone call. I heard you were asking about phone calls. I was coming to see if you still needed some assistance." He explained.

She was caught between all his unanswered questions and the desire to yell _yes_! She wanted—needed—to know how he knew John, but she also needed—and wanted—to phone Danny. She wasn't sure she trusted him, either. But she didn't really trust anyone anymore.

"Maybe I do." She finally said, slowly and suspiciously. "How are you going to help me?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a narrow hand-held radio. It'd been built upon and dismantled, though. Enough that Clara could tell from the dim lighting.

"Open the door and take you to the phones." He replied easily. "Normally you can only phone numbers that have been preapproved, but I know a hack around the monitoring system."

Clara stared.

"I-I haven't got money on my pin," she admitted. She tried not to let her disappointment seep into her tone.

He arched a bushy eyebrow almost coyly.

"I do."

Clara hesitated. She knew what she wanted—what she wanted was to take him up on it immediately—but she was afraid of so many things. Of him, of getting caught. He seemed to read that on her face.

"Clara, Clara, Clara," he sang. He made her name sound almost musical. "I never would've thought you were one for fear. How long did you get?"

She licked her lips. "A long time."

He nodded. He almost looked sympathetic for a moment, but it passed.

"We won't get caught. But if we did, what exactly do you have to lose? They've already taken your freedom and your control. But there are ways to take it back."

She fiddled with her fingers.

"Why should I trust you?" She asked quietly.

"You shouldn't. You should trust yourself. You'd never put yourself in a dangerous situation, and even if you did, you're more than capable of getting yourself out of it." He replied coolly.

"You give me loads more credit than I deserve." Clara scoffed.

He pressed his lips together, like her words displeased him.

"I'll think you'll come to realize I give you just enough."

Clara observed him for a moment longer, and then, with a rush of abandon, she nodded.

"All right."

He approached her door, that device held ready in his hand. He looked up at her through the bars before he did anything. Their eyes locked and he held that gaze seriously, intently. It made the back of Clara's neck tingle, but it wasn't exactly unpleasant. She swallowed dryly.

"If I do you this favor, you've got to do me a favor." He told her.

That shattered the moment. Clara grimaced and stepped back, her nose scrunched with disgust. She gestured around her furiously.

"Seriously?!" She snapped, before she could stop herself. She felt her heart racing with anger. "All _this _for a blowjob?!"

He cocked his head to the side, amused.

"You really are a wee little egomaniac." He commented. "Absolutely beautiful, but mad."

Her vision was dancing with rage.

"Perhaps there will be a day when I'm desperate enough to service cross criminals, but that day is not today, and for the record, any oral sex from me would be worth _far more _than a phone call!"

"I'm sure it would. That's why that's not what I was asking for."

"Yes! And another thing, it's _inherently creepy_ that you—wait."

She blinked at him. His upper lip was curled up with dark humor, his arms crossed over his chest. Clara exhaled slowly.

"So…you weren't going to ask…"

"No. That's not the favor I was looking for. But it does say a lot about you and your impression of me that you thought that was the only thing I could possibly want from you."

"Oh." She looked down and shut her eyes briefly in chagrin. When she looked back up, he was watching her patiently.

"But it is a dual favor. And you won't understand either of them just yet."

She regarded him warily.

"Okay," she said slowly. "What?"

He stared at her, and for the briefest moment, Clara caught an expression of need in his gray eyes. But it passed over quickly.

"I need your help and I need you to let me touch you."

She reared back, but he continued before she could chastise him again.

"Not in a sexual way. Just your face. Just for a moment." He explained. He sounded too keen to sound embarrassed. Clara furrowed her expression.

"You want to…touch…my _face_? Like…my cheeks and forehead and nose?" She clarified slowly.

He nodded once, firmly.

"Yes. And I want you to be okay with it."

She shook her head, bemused.

"I—" she stopped, unsure what to say. "What's the thing you need help with?"

His lips curled up. He pressed a button on the strange device in his hand and it lit up green.

"Mutiny." He responded.

Clara's eyes widened as the door to her cell clicked open.

* * *

><p>She could feel the Doctor's eyes on her as she brought the phone to her ear.<p>

He'd been quiet the entire walk to the phones, keeping an almost suspicious distance between them. She'd stared at him from the corner of her eye, trying to gauge him to see if pressing him for information would be safe, but in the end she decided she didn't yet know him enough to risk it. She was afraid to set him off by asking too many questions. She had no idea what he'd do if he was set off. She had no idea who he even was.

She paused before she pressed Danny's number in. She kept her voice lowered so even he had to lean closer to make out what she was saying.

"I don't just routinely cause mutinies. It's not a hobby. What happened before…there were circumstances. Regardless of what the judge may have felt, I'm not a narcissistic threat to public safety. And I'm not in the business to cause rebellions anymore. I'm…reformed."

She'd stolen the word from Vastra. She could only hope she was a bit more truthful than she'd been.

The Doctor didn't seem bothered by her words.

"I was certain you'd say that. That's why I'm not asking for you to agree to cause a mutiny right this moment. I'm just asking you to agree you'll help me."

She shifted, frustrated.

"Okay, but how _exactly _do you want me to help you? Because I'm not interested in doing what I did in the RAF again. I won't cause any more deaths. I won't hurt any more people."

He nodded. Clara was unsure if he'd truly grasped her seriousness or not.

"I know. I just want you to listen to what I have to say. That's how I want you to help me. Just listen. Just see me."

Clara felt tired.

"Can't you just tell me what you want to say right now."

"No."

She lowered the phone and sighed.

"Why not?"

He stared. She waited.

"Because I want you to promise you'll stick around to hear it. However long it takes."

She could feel her mind spinning as it pulled apart his words. Her fingers felt weak and she had to quickly tighten them to keep the receiver from slipping out of her grasps. She was hesitant.

"So…you're asking for my…company?" She asked quietly.

He averted his eyes for the first time since she'd met him. He stared down at his feet.

"You could say that, sure." He said gruffly. He cleared his throat and looked up, glaring fiercely this time. "Finish your call. I haven't got all day."

She sighed.

"Fine," she grumbled. "But you're looking for help in the wrong place. I can't even help myself."

"Once again, I think you'll find you're wrong about that."

* * *

><p>Danny answered after only one ring.<p>

"Clara?"

She almost wept at the sound of his voice.

"Danny, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Hey, it's all right. It's fine. Are you okay? Clara, how are they treating you?"

"I missed his funeral."

"I know. _I'm _sorry. I tried to get you out just for that day, but they wouldn't listen. They fired me for asking. Very paranoid about where people's allegiances lie these days."

"I forgot to tell him I loved him that morning."

Danny was quiet. Clara turned so her back was to the Doctor, horrified that he was hearing these things and seeing her this way. She longed for Danny so deeply and completely that she would've done anything to have him there with her.

"Oh, Clara," he whispered. She listened to him take a shaky breath. "He knew. He always knew."

She wasn't so sure of that, and that was part of the reason her heart hurt so terribly. The thought of him dying with the thought that she might've sent him to his death…it ripped her apart from the inside out. It was what kept waking her up at night.

"Are you okay?" She asked Danny. "No one questioned you, right? They believed I knocked you unconscious?"

"Fully and completely. The concussion helped." He admitted lightly.

"Con—?!"

"It's fine. I did it myself to make the story more believable. Although…Clara, I wish we hadn't done that. I wish I'd gone in there with you."

Deep down, it was what she selfishly wanted too. But the words made her react defensively.

"Don't say that. Don't ever say that. You don't deserve to be here."

"And you do?"

"Without a doubt."

"Rubbish."

"No. It's not rubbish. I—I killed eleven people, Danny. I turned over two hundred against their superior officers. I shattered eleven families. All for John, and in the end, he…" she stopped. She bowed her head. It took extraordinary effort to keep speaking. "I deserve all I'm getting. You deserve to be home and safe."

"Maybe home doesn't exist when you're gone."

She shut her eyes, overcome with sorrow. Her nose seared with oncoming tears.

"Danny…"

"No. I don't want—I didn't mean for us to have this conversation again. And I suppose it doesn't even matter now, anyway." His voice was thick.

For the first time, Clara risked a glance back at the Doctor. He was standing a respectful distance away, but she remembered that every minute she was on the phone was costing him. She turned back around.

"I need to go," she said apologetically. "But come visit me. Last night I got a VO number for you. You can go online and book a time to come. Please, will you?"

Clara could hear the unrestrained love in his voice.

"Of course. As soon as possible. Hang on, let me get a pen." She listened to him shuffle something about. "All right. What's the number?"

She trilled the number off quickly, worried the line would die on her. But it waited until the end to do that.

"Love you." He whispered.

She was parting her lips to reply when the connection split. She stared blankly at the machine, horrified. It took her a moment to realize the Doctor had pressed down on the switchhook, ending her call.

"Any longer and I wouldn't have enough to buy anything on canteen this week."

Clara blinked against the burning in her eyes. She spun around to face him, her gaze hot with accusations.

"I would've paid you back. You didn't have to hang up on him."

"It's better to end calls before you say the L word. Before you make promises you can't keep." He practically spat.

Clara's eyes were welling with tears. They were mostly from fury.

"'I love you' is not a promise." She bit, her words slow and dangerous. "It's an admission."

"You're wrong, bonny girl." He sneered. His tone was almost condescending. Clara despised it. "And one day you'll see that."

She was so cross she was shaking. She knew part of her anger was simply from the overwhelming nature of getting to talk to Danny for the first time in months, but she felt comfortable to blame the Doctor anyway. She waited tensely in front of her cell door for him to open it, but he made no moves to. Clara looked up at him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. They slipped and fell to her sides when she saw the look on his face. Expectant.

"What?" She demanded, and then she remembered the first part of their deal. She felt blood surge to her cheeks. "Oh," she mumbled. She shuffled closer to him begrudgingly. She lifted her eyes from the floor and looked into his. "Just my face?"

"Of course." He affirmed.

She inhaled shortly and then exhaled. "I still think it's weird."

"That's okay. It might be. I haven't decided yet."

She moved even closer to express her quiet permission. She stared determinately over his shoulder as he lifted his hands. She eyed a crack on the wall like she could mend it with her eyes. His rough fingertips touched her cheeks for a moment—and then he quickly retracted them, like he'd been burned. Clara averted her eyes back to his, partially curious. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he reached forward once again. His fingertips stroked her cheeks gently with the lightest of touches, and at first all Clara could feel was all the blood racing underneath her skin. And then he traced his index finger down her nose, caressed a thumb over her lips, stroked her hair back from her forehead. She felt an unexpected and wholly inappropriate surge of arousal, one that made her blink rapidly in surprise. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from jumping back from him.

"Oh," he said softly.

Clara looked around them nervously, looking everywhere but his eyes. His fingers continued to trail curiously over her skin. She could feel her heart racing.

"What?" She asked. Her voice was a bit higher than she would've liked.

"I like the feel of you." He admitted. There was wonder in his tone, but frustration, too. Clara swallowed hard.

"The…feel of me?"

She looked down and tried to follow the movements of his fingers, but she ended up going slightly cross-eyed as he moved his finger back to the bridge of her nose. He hummed with warm realization.

"You were right. There's nothing wrong with your nose. Not at all."

She was red-faced and gaping as he opened her door, turned on the spot, and strolled away.

She could feel her skin tingling.

* * *

><p>There was an intimacy in whatever had just transpired that she couldn't express in words, so she decided she wouldn't speak of it.<p>

She slept for perhaps three hours, John's watch pressed to her cheek and _Meditations _tucked in beside her, and then the lights flickered on and everyone woke. She was sluggish and quiet the entire morning, too tired to even obsess over the path of the Doctor's fingertips as she had that night for hours before she finally fell asleep.

"You look horrid. Did you sleep at all last night?"

Clara looked up from her breakfast pack. She'd been given two tea bags by accident, something that had made her grin like a fool despite her exhaustion. She turned a teabag between her index and middle fingers as she contemplated how to respond to Vastra.

"Not really." She admitted. She held up the bag. "May I use your kettle?"

Vastra inclined her head politely. "Of course."

Clara grabbed the hard, plastic mug she'd finally been given and crossed over to the kettle. She carried it to the sink and filled it, her mind circuiting back to the Doctor as she stared at the water. She kept blushing as she did and she could only pray she'd forget it. It was difficult to when it'd been the first time she'd been genuinely _touched _since she'd been arrested. She was sure after a few days it'd lessen in her mind.

"Don't forget to check your private cash balance today." Vastra reminded her.

Jenny had tried to help her make her phone call the previous night, but when they'd asked about her balance, the screw said her money had yet to be posted. He said it should be up by sometime today, which was a huge relief, because Clara needed another bar of soap and some more toothpaste. A few different food goods wouldn't hurt, either. And she was hoping to get her own electric kettle, an extra pair of socks, and (of course) a lot more tea bags. She'd told her dad to just put most her bank account contents in, as she was going to die in here most likely, so if everything had posted she was going to buy some sugar, too. She'd never been so excited for shopping in her life.

"I won't." She crossed back over and set the kettle on the ring. She turned as the water heated. "You know my friend that I told you about? Danny?"

"Mmhmm."

"He's coming to visit me."

She smiled at Vastra. That smile quickly slid from her face as Vastra frowned.

"How exactly is that? You haven't filed a form or phoned him." She reminded her.

Clara froze.

"Oh—I…yes, you're right. I mean he's _going _to come visit me, once I phone him and give him a visiting number." She backtracked.

Vastra looked at her suspiciously for a moment. She turned down to her container of dry cereal.

"Well, don't get your hopes up, Oz. People aren't always so reliable when you ask them to visit." She commented dryly.

But Clara wasn't worried at all.

"This man is."

* * *

><p>She carried a piece of paper and a pen around with her for the rest of the day. She was keeping a list of things she wanted to talk to Danny about, things she wanted to say. She didn't want to forget a thing, since she didn't know how often she'd get to see him. Jenny and Vastra teased her lightly about it at lunch, but it wasn't mean-spirited.<p>

She sat down near the back of the field during their outdoors hour, that piece of paper pressed against her thighs. She spun the pencil between her fingers as she reread the things she'd listed out, mulling over what else to add. She was so absorbed in it that she forgot to look for the Doctor. But it didn't matter; he didn't forget to look for her.

"Hi." He greeted.

His tone was stiff and formal. Clara looked up at him, squinting some from the sun.

"Hello," she replied, somewhat uneasily.

He gestured towards the thin grass beside her.

"I'm going to sit?"

Clara set the pencil down on top of the paper.

"Are you asking or telling me?"

"Asking. Telling. Both." He clamped his lips shut. Clara wondered how long it'd been (before her) that he'd had an actual conversation with a human being. She wondered if she'd ever get the chance to ask him. After a moment of thought, she nodded.

He sank down beside her rather ungracefully, a mess of long limbs and creaking knees. She shifted the paper onto her other side, just out of his line of sight. She looked up at him. He seemed intent on examining the grass. Clara struggled to break the awkward silence.

"Thank you for the phone call." She blurted. She cleared her throat and looked down at her lap. "It was really kind of you."

He made a noncommittal sound. She waited for him to speak.

"I could tell you really needed it." He finally admitted.

Clara turned and looked up at him. She studied his eyes.

"I did." She agreed. She watched him look back down at his hands. "How did you know John?"

He forcibly ripped up blades of grass.

"If I tell you, it might change the way you feel about him."

Clara took a steadying breath before she replied.

"Felt about him." She corrected. Even if it made her chest sting with pain. "He's gone. And nothing can change the love I've already felt."

He shifted and turned to look at her. He seemed disbelieving, but he began to speak anyway.

"He was my military in." He admitted.

Clara pressed for more, even though her heart was sinking. Even though she was already beginning to understand.

"Your military _in_?" She pressed.

"Yes. I got all my intelligent information about the military from him. We were part of the same organization. The Time Lords. We all went by the same code name _the Doctor_. Had our own numbers for each section of the government and society we were involved in. He was eleven, the military."

Clara's gut reaction was to deny it. She shook her head before she could think it through.

"No. I was his commanding officer. He wasn't…rebelling against me."

"In some ways, no, he wasn't. But in the strictest sense? He was. Every single day."

Clara turned. She stared down at that white paper. Her throat was narrowing dangerously. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly before she asked her next question. Her words were laced with dread.

"Was…was there a man named Danny?"

"No."

Her posture visibly relaxed. She exhaled slowly. Her head was throbbing and she couldn't wrap her head around it.

"What did your organization do? What was your purpose?" A thought occurred to her suddenly. She thought about the Air Commodore's words. About how they'd picked John very carefully. "Did the army know about this?"

"It was theorized among us that they must have." The Doctor answered. "And as for our organization…well, that's a conversation for another time. But all you need to know is that we're feared and despised by the government. And that our main objective is to protect the human race. We weren't the bad guys, Clara. Not anymore than you were."

She meant to press for more information—to find out exactly what kind of information John had been supplying—but a sudden, horrid idea slammed into her. She was breathless from the pain of it.

"Oh, God," she whispered. She could feel nausea rising within her. In her mind, she was seeing a quick montage of all the times John had asked her curious questions about her privileged information, all the times she'd thought it was just pillow talk. She bowed forward, so her forehead was almost touching her knees. Her words were pained whispers. "He was using me. He…oh, I think I'm going to be sick—"

She started to scramble to her feet, but the Doctor reached over quickly. He locked his hand around her forearm and gently tugged her back down. She felt dizzy and unfocused as he reached up and grasped her face gently. He redirected her gaze to him.

"No." He said firmly, angrily. "No. Not for a fucking _second_. He loved you."

She stared at him, wide-eyed and horrified.

"But…he asked me for information so much, I never even realized—"

"It didn't even start like that, Clara. He genuinely loved you. I've got the letters to prove it. I'll—I'll give them to you. Okay? You can have them. You can see. I'll have to teach you our code, but once you read them, you'll know. His feelings were real. Christ, he was the only genuine person I ever knew. I can't stand to think of anyone doubting that."

She was terribly confused, and all at once, all she wanted to do was curl up in her bed. She felt even worse when he lowered his hands from her face.

"But why didn't he tell me?" She asked quietly. "I could've protected him somehow. I could've helped. Why didn't he trust me?"

The Doctor was looking at her strangely. She didn't understand and she was tired of being confused, tired of feeling so lost.

"He trusted you more than anyone else on the earth." He told her patiently.

"How do you know that?" She snapped. "Did he write that in a sodding letter? Because he could've lied. Like he lied to me."

She watched the Doctor smile, oddly entertained by her sorrow. She wanted to smack him.

"No. I know it because he chose you to be his successor."

"His…successor?"

The Doctor was patient where she was frenzied. She was sure below her churning confusion there was a bit of anger. He'd never told her any of this. He'd kept so many secrets. And now she found out he'd made her some sort of inheritor to his role in an anarchy group?

"Well, you would've been, anyway. Were you still in the military. He'd never thought you'd end up here. He always thought that—when he was taken out—you'd still be exactly where you were. It was our job to update you on everything, including the suspicious details of his death, and he trusted you to carry on doing what he'd started. But obviously that'll never happen now. They only need one jail informant and that's me."

Clara reached up and cradled her face. She shut her eyes tightly.

"This is too much. What do you expect me to do with this information?" She demanded. She lowered her hands and turned to look up at him. "He's gone and he's left this huge mess and…what do you expect me to do about it?"

He shrugged. He turned back to the pile of yanked grass blades beside him.

"Nothing. I'm not really actively involved in it anymore either. I got caught a few years back—our code didn't prove to be as indistinguishable as we'd hoped. You just asked me how I knew John. So I told you."

She stared down at her lap. She didn't look back up until she felt his hand settle on her shoulder, warm and oddly comforting. She felt his thumb rub back and forth. She turned her head and glanced back up at him.

"I'm not who you think I am."

"Nobody ever is." He agreed.

She studied his eyes.

"I mean—I'm not threatening. I don't have the answers. I'm just…me. Clara. That's all I can be. So if you want to be…friends, or…acquaintances…that's fine by me. But not if you're expecting me to be someone I'm not."

He pulled his hand from her shoulder. He lifted his palms into the air.

"Like I said," he started innocently. "I just want your company."

She eyed him suspiciously for a moment longer. And then she leaned back on her hands and stared up at the sky.

"All right, then."


	5. Touch

She was halfway through dinner when a screw appeared at the door of her cell.

"Inmate RY2227, you're due in the Senior Prison Officer's office."

She looked across the cell to Vastra. The woman shrugged and returned to her meal, but Clara caught the slight lift of her eyebrows. And it frightened her.

She set her tray to the side and rose up from the bed, quickly pushing her socked feet back into her shoes. She followed after the screw (who seemed intent on keeping at least a foot of distance between them at all times, as if Clara were contagious) and ignored the whistles and disgusting comments that flittered her way from the cells in the men's wing. She wanted very much to lift her head and shout equally crude things back at them, but she was worried she was already in trouble somehow. Perhaps they'd found out about the phone call.

The screw gestured towards an opened doorway, turned, and left. Clara hesitated outside of it for a long, pulse-pounding moment, but then she lifted her chin and walked through. There was an ornate wooden desk, a plush armchair, and a rickety folding chair. She didn't have to be told which was for her.

Once she was seated on the flimsy seat, she looked up at the officer. He didn't offer her the same respect. He kept his eyes on the screen in front of him as he spoke.

"Your visiting numbers have been voided. Your phone call privileges have been revoked. You are no longer welcome to join your fellow inmates during lunch in the servery. You will remain in your cell during the outdoors hour and during rec."

Clara shifted as her heart plummeted painfully to her feet. The chair she was sitting on creaked. She could feel a broken piece of it digging into her back.

"But—"

"There will be no discussion and there will be no bargaining."

Clara heard the sound of a screw approaching. The backs of her eyes stung and her throat began aching.

"Why?" She demanded. He ignored her. She took a deep, calming breath. "You have to tell me why. You have to!"

He looked up at her for the first time. His eyes were cold, mechanic grey.

"You are not the one giving the orders here, RY2227. But I hear you've had problems with that before."

The screw had arrived, but Clara was not moving. She squared her shoulders. Inside her contained panic and disappointment, she found strength.

"And I'll have more problems with it unless you tell me what I'm being punished for. I haven't done anything!"

She was sure the threat would only get her in more trouble, but he snapped his eyes to her once more, as if panicked. The emotion faded as quickly as it'd arrived, but Clara learned something. She was not as powerless as she thought.

"You are being punished for associating and conspiring with another high risk inmate." He bit out. He set his hands on top of his desk and looked at her with acute loathing. "I've heard about your little chats with 'the Doctor'. Don't think I don't know what you two are up to."

Clara had truly had no real intentions of causing any sort of rebellion here, but the Senior Officer's actions to her in that office were quickly changing her mind. Her anger simmered and her feeling of insult grew, but she maintained a calm face on the outside. Her mind scrambled about, searching for some sort of excuse, and the minute it snapped onto an idea, she went for it.

"That's not what I was doing with him."

His laughter sounded like barking.

"Oh, I'm sure. Tell me, inmate. Do you think I'm an imbecile? Because I'd have to be to believe that."

"I think you probably try very hard to not be an imbecile. But I'm not so certain whether you succeed." She shot back. She licked her lips and shifted in her seat so she was sitting up straighter. "I'm his companion."

"That much was obvious from the observations of my guards."

She fought back the urge to turn around and shoot a dirty look at the screw. She tucked her tone so it was just nearing suggestion.

"No. I mean we're involved."

He stared.

"Involved in _what_, exactly?" He asked. But Clara noticed the way his eyes had widened slightly. She folded her hands in her lap and decided blunt would be the best way to handle this.

"Hmm…how should I put this…fucking?"

He laughed again, but it was less bark and more questioning.

"What are you trying to admit to?"

_A lesser crime_, she thought. She heaved a sigh.

"We fancy each other. I've always had this thing for older men. When I saw him, I just knew I wanted to be his prison wife. I promise that when we're together, we're not doing much talking, much less planning some sort of…fallible rebellion." She had to work hard to make her eyes soften. "I'm happier here with him than I've ever been. And he feels the same way. Why on _earth _would we want to leave?"

She'd thrown him. He couldn't seem to look anywhere _but _her face now.

"Sexual relations with another inmate are strictly forbidden!"

Clara knew feigning ignorance would get her nowhere.

"I know. But if it's making two high risk inmates content, is it really something that's detrimental to your prison?" She asked. She cleared her throat lightly. "I mean, after all. You must know what happens when I get bored. You've got my entire life story on your computer there."

She nodded towards the monitor. He glanced to it once and then looked back to her, hooked on to her words.

"Egomaniac, narcissistic, borderline sociopathic tendencies…those are all words in my file, right? Those are the words they attached to me forever." She stated. "Would it be wrong to assume they're also in his?"

He stared into her eyes for an awkwardly terrible period of time, but Clara refused to look away. She waited until he broke it. He looked to the screw.

"Andrews, take her back to her cell. Inmate, you're on probation. If I have any reason to believe what you're telling me is a lie, all your privileges will be revoked, and you'll be moved to solitary. And trust me: that isn't a place you want to go."

She kept up with the screw's pace this time. She walked beside him, and he seemed too unnerved by it to lash out at her. She looked down at her hands. She'd left out the biggest word to describe herself. _Manipulative._

* * *

><p>They'd taken her tray away when she returned to her cell. Vastra watched her as she curled up on her side on top of her blanket. She counted her breaths until she felt herself calming down. She could maintain an image of serenity, but on the inside, she was frenzied. She wasn't sure why she'd done what she just did. She knew the majority of it was because she wanted to see Danny. She felt if someone took that away from her, she'd rip along her many creases. But she also knew it was because, from the moment he'd refused to look her in the eye and refused to call her by her name, she'd begun to entertain the idea of mutiny. Just to get him back. Just to put him back in his place. Just to regain her control.<p>

"What happened?" Vastra asked her. She'd been patient for a while, but it was clear she couldn't wait for Clara to come to her. She was openly curious.

"Nothing." Clara lied. She searched the top of her blanket blindly, her eyes still shut. Her fingers curled around the spine of _Meditations_. "Just had to clear something with my bank."

She carefully cracked opened her book. She traced her finger down the pages and she read until something touched her within. And then she kept staring at those words until she'd sucked every possible bit of comfort and advice from them that she could.

_The secret of all victory lies in the organization of the non-obvious._

* * *

><p>When she'd planned out what to do in her head, she'd thought she'd have a bit of time to talk to him first.<p>

She'd rehearsed the quickest way to explain what had happened a million times. She'd gotten it down to eight words. But when she finally saw him during recreation hours, it was too late for any of those words. They locked eyes across the library. And Clara could feel at least two sets of eyes on her from the corners of the room.

She ignored the screws as best she could as she headed straight towards him. He was leaning against a row of books, seemingly unaware of the shift that'd taken place. She could do nothing to heed her heart's frantic beating; she didn't have a choice. If she wanted to see Danny, if she wanted to have her privileges, and _especially _if she wanted to get revenge on the Senior Prison Officer, she had to pull her charade off perfectly. It couldn't be too flimsy. It couldn't be too fake. She had to play it like she believed it. Even if she was terrified out her wits. Even if she wasn't yet entirely convinced that he wouldn't kill her himself.

He parted his lips to say something as she approached, but she didn't give him the chance. Her palms pressed against his shoulders, pushing him back against the row of books. His eyebrows lifted and his eyes widened—and then she carefully turned them so they were just barely out of the screws' sight. She might've been able to get a word in then, but she was panicking internally. She curled her fingers around his bony shoulders and lifted up onto her tiptoes. And then she pressed her mouth to his before she could give into her panic.

Her words were frantic whispers between each caress of her lips against his.

"Go with it," she breathed. She moved her hand up to the base of his neck. She pushed her fingers up into his hair and she parted her lips, tasting him without tasting a thing. In his shock, he was thankfully unresisting. "Trust me."

It wasn't exciting or thrilling at all. In fact, it was terrifying and strange. Until he reciprocated. Either he figured it out startlingly quickly or he'd already known, because he reached down and grasped her hips tightly without another moment's hesitation. He was bold as he brought her body flush against his, turning them so he was pressing her back into the books, his body pushing intimately against hers. She could feel the bite of the cold, metal shelf through the thin material of her shirt, and the book spines were digging into the back of her head, but she was suddenly indifferent to everything but the burning of her lips and the surprising pleasure of his tongue on hers. If his fingertips had left her skin hot and tingling before, she was burning now. When she pulled her lips back to pant, it was not because her panic had rendered her breathless. It was because she suddenly wanted to shove all the books on the middle shelf to the floor, so she could sit on that shelf and wrap her legs around him, so she could feel every effect she might've been having on him (every effect she unexpectedly wished he would have). And she could've done it, too. She was senseless and alarmed by her body's response, even in that stressful moment. But the screws had obviously seen more than enough to satiate their spying duties.

"Back away! Get away from each other!" They barked.

A screw grabbed Clara's arm tightly and yanked her hard to the side, pulling her out from between the Doctor and the shelf. She went off balance and fell, landing hard on her side. Her hipbone slammed painfully into the concrete floor, so hard the pain sent a shock traveling along all her bones. So hard she cried out.

"_Don't touch her_!" The Doctor ordered. It was as much a threat as anything. Clara heard the sound of something crashing to the floor. "Don't you _ever touch her again_!"

And because he was the Doctor, they listened. When Clara pushed herself upright and turned, they were staring down at the two angrily. But they made no move to touch them.

"That's a citation for both of you." The taller screw declared. "You're off canteen for this week. And I'll be reporting this to the Senior Prison Officer."

_Good, _Clara thought. She rubbed her hip. It was already extremely sore to the touch. _You do that. _

"You're both done with recreation today. You'll be escorted back to your cells. Come along."

The Doctor shoved past the waiting screw. Clara stared at his outstretched hand. His back was to the screws, so he could've offered her any facial expression in the world. And he chose concern.

She set her hand in his, surprised for a moment at how soft his palm felt. How comforting it was to hold it. He pulled her to her feet and reached down. His fingertips grazed lightly over her hip. She moved back from his touch with an involuntary hiss of pain.

"They hurt you." He stated. Clara shrugged, suddenly feeling sheepish. He lowered his hand and turned.

"You hurt her." He informed them. "You shouldn't have done that."

It was chilling. The screws' hands went to the phones clipped to their sides uneasily, like they expected the Doctor to charge at them at any moment. But he merely turned back to look at Clara.

"I'll be there at our time." He told her cryptically.

That was the last thing he said. They were both escorted from the library and back to their own cells.

Clara spent the rest of the hour staring at the floor, her cheeks pink and her mind spiraling.

* * *

><p>"What's happened to you?"<p>

The question flew over the roaring of the shower. Clara looked to Jenny and followed her line of sight. She found herself looking down at her own sweeping bruise.

"Screw." She answered shortly.

She turned back to her shampoo bottle. She was trying to carefully ration out what she used, since she wouldn't be able to buy anything for the entire week. She hadn't even gotten the chance to purchase anything yet. She stared at the blue puddle of shampoo in her palm and wondered with a flash of anxiety if she'd done the right thing. Could she have done something less extreme to have persuaded them? Hugged him? Kissed his cheek?

Her regretful thoughts were severed by Vastra.

"They're good at causing those. I once got smacked so hard in the mouth I lost a tooth." She shared. She grinned widely and moved her cheek to the side, showcasing a missing tooth. Clara was still naïve enough to feel a flash of shock.

"A screw hit you? For no reason?" She demanded.

The two women laughed. They shared a look, the one they used whenever Clara was being particularly inexperienced.

"It's not in any official records, but we've had an inmate die because of their brutality." Jenny shared. She stepped closer to Clara out of concern. "Did they hit you? Or shove you into something?"

It occurred to Clara—not for the first time—that Jenny would've been one of her very best friends had they met in school. She smiled back automatically. Even if nothing was truly funny at all.

"I was shoved down." She shared. She turned to look at Vastra. "Has anyone reported it to those outside the prison?"

Vastra's smile was sardonic.

"Oh, Oz," she started. She reached over and set her hand underneath Clara's, catching the dripping shampoo that'd begun to slide off her palm. Clara hadn't noticed. Vastra ran her palm over Clara's, scraping the shampoo back where it belonged. "No one cares about us out there."

Jenny offered her her new bar of soap. She hadn't even used it yet, since she'd been finishing up an old one. Clara was hesitant to take it, even though she didn't have one and wouldn't for the next week at least, but Jenny pushed it into her palm with a firm nod. Clara closed her hands around it and managed a grateful smile.

"That's why we've got to care about each other." Jenny added.

She looked into Jenny's warm eyes, and she almost told her about the Doctor and the situation she'd gotten herself into. But she couldn't translate the words into something they would understand. She couldn't find a way to say _I liked it _without them thinking her mad.

* * *

><p>She was fairly certain their time was the night.<p>

He arrived only a few minutes after Vastra fell asleep. Clara had been expecting him; she hadn't even taken her shoes off. She waited expectantly inside her cell as he opened the door.

"You coming?" He asked.

She approached him slowly.

"Where are we going?"

He closed that strange device and stored it back in his pocket.

"On a walk." He declared.

Clara walked by his side, peeking up at his blank face every few moments. After a longer silence than she would've liked, she decided to take control of the conversation.

"Earlier, when I ambushed you like that…well, I kind of told the Senior Prison Officer that we're involved. A screw had spotted us talking outside earlier and told him. He thinks we're planning a rebellion."

He looked down at her.

"Are we?"

They walked from the wing to a room she'd never been in. She lost her train of thought completely when they walked in.

"…where are we?" She asked. She took another few steps in and turned on the spot, taking in the plush carpets, luxurious sofas, and state-of-the-art built in kitchen. Compared to the drab surroundings she'd been living in, it looked like the height of luxury.

"Screws' lounge. This is where most the prison money goes, if you were curious." He replied. He walked forward and sat on a sofa. She met his eyes in the dim light and stared for only a moment. She joined him, but she kept a respectable distance between their bodies, for fear of scaring him off somehow.

"It's rubbish." She voiced. She looked around once more and then glanced up at him. "The way the screws treat people. The conditions of the prison. It's terrible."

The Doctor's eyes studied her.

"It is." He agreed. "Do you want to do something about it?"

She looked forward as she thought.

"I would've said no just this morning. But…maybe. Maybe I do." She admitted. She thought about the way she'd been able to almost control the Senior Prison Officer. The way he'd been frightened of her. "And I think we might be the only two people in this prison that are equipped to."

Their eyes found each other's. She fell into the shared look and felt her stomach flutter, but she pushed it aside.

"I think you're right, Clara." He admitted. She looked away from his eyes when she spotted his hand rising. He reached up and touched her lips like he had before, softly, curiously. But there was a glowing in his eyes she hadn't seen before. "And I've decided that, as much as I love the feel of you, the taste of you is infinitely better."

Her veins felt hot. She licked her lips once he dropped his fingers from them.

"Oh?" She asked lightly. "So you're not angry with me for getting us stuck in this charade?"

He smirked, but it wasn't mocking. Clara resisted the urge to grin back at him.

"Well, I'm fairly certain we proved enough earlier today, but if we have to do it again, I think I'll survive." He responded.

_We could give it another go, _she almost said. _Practice makes perfect, after all_.

She settled on a small smile instead.


	6. Descent

**A/n: **So sorry for the wait! Thanks for reading and reviewing xx

* * *

><p>Vastra returned from recreation that next night pale and sickly looking.<p>

Clara sat beside her and tended to her as best she could, but there wasn't much she could do. She tried to go get a screw to call for a nurse, but there were none to be seen, and no matter how loudly she called for one she was ignored.

She assumed Vastra had food poisoning from something, an assumption that was later verified when the woman began vomiting into the sink. She was going to stay with her and skip showering, but Vastra urged her to go.

"Jenny will be concerned. She'll want an update on how I am." She croaked. "Go on."

Clara hesitated at the doorway. She shot one last look at her cellmate, but then she realized she couldn't do anything to help but what Vastra had asked.

She informed two screws of her cellmate's condition while waiting for Jenny. The first ignored her and the second muttered something about "possibly" sending for a nurse "if she felt like it". Clara felt violence knocking around inside her heart, but she forced herself to stand down.

"How is she?"

Clara turned back around in the queue. Jenny was almost as pale as Vastra had been, but Clara knew it was from emotional sickness instead of physical.

"Not so great. I tried to get someone to go see her, but they're all being pricks."

Jenny was certain.

"I think she's been poisoned. The child abusers we've been targeting, they've…proven to be a lot nastier than any we've dealt with before."

Clara stared at Jenny for a long, horrific beat. And then she spun around and walked back over to the last screw she'd talked to. She worked down her sudden worried tears. She let her voice grow as hard as she liked.

"There is an inmate who's possible severely sick and _needs _to see a doctor. I demand she be taken to one. Immediately."

The screw's laughter was snorting and hysterical.

"Oh, Christ," she gasped. She turned. "Marv, you've gotta hear this. She thinks we actually care about this filth."

Clara felt her spine prickling as the screw continued to laugh. She clenched her fists as others joined. And then she broke. She would get help for Vastra and she would not feel bad for whatever she'd have to do to make that happen. It was easy again, like it'd been in the army.

"Fine," she bit. Her voice was hardly louder than a whisper. She turned around. "Stick your fucking shower. I'm going elsewhere."

Marv's hand latched onto her shoulder as she went to walk forward. So far, she'd been gritting her teeth and counting. But she didn't even try to do that this time. She reached behind her—her face still faced forward—and grasped his middle and index fingers. She jammed them back hard until she heard him gasp with pain and then drop his hand.

"Don't touch me," she reminded them evenly.

And then she took the time to slowly turn around and stare them all in the eye. She'd learned in the army that eye contact was dominance, and sure enough, every one of them dropped their eyes before she'd even considered doing it. She smiled, and perhaps the oddity of that smile was what locked them in place. Because when she turned back around, no one followed.

"Clara," Jenny called, her voice strung with anxiety. "Where are you going?"

"To get a doctor."

* * *

><p>The problem was—she had no idea where his cell was.<p>

She might've felt frightened to walk through the men's area during shower time, knowing they'd all be roaming about free, but her anger kept her fear suspended far above her. She stared forward with a hard stare that made even the brashest rethink crossing her path. She walked until she spotted a familiar face.

"Oi," she snapped her fingers. "Where's the Doctor's cell?"

The man who'd harassed her in the outside area what felt like years ago now blinked.

"I ain't talking to_ you_, bi—"

Clara leaned in and grasped the collar of his shirt. She tightened her fingers.

"Where—is—the—Doctor?" She repeated, her words measured.

"I'M NOT TOUCHING!" He yelled. "SHE'S TOUCHING ME! FOR EVERYONE AROUND, I DIDN'T LAY A FINGER ON THE BIRD!"

Clara scoffed, humored.

"Do you really think the Doctor would need a reason to smack you? I'd only have to tell him. And right now, you're _really _pissing me off." She admitted.

He turned his eyes back to hers. Fear flashed across his face.

"He's in F. Walk straight, take a right, take a left, and then take another right. He's in solitary, last cell in the back."

Clara let up the pressure on his collar.

"Solitary? Why? When did he get in trouble, it had to have been just today."

He stared, confused.

"He lives in solidary."

Clara blinked.

"For twenty years?"

"For twenty years."

Suddenly, his strangeness made all the more sense to her. Devoid of a cell mate, with inmates who wouldn't even speak to him…perhaps she was the first person who'd had a genuine conversation with him in two decades. Perhaps she was the first person he'd touched in that time. He'd sat in here alone and aged and he'd lost twenty years of his life and—she let go of the man and retreated back, her hard features softening with pain. She hadn't known. He hadn't said. But to him, it must not have been news. She turned her face.

"Thank you for telling me."

She was little Clara again, with soft edges and a gentle walk, so she had to move quickly through the rest of the wing to keep people away from her. She was too startled to revert back to Wing Commander Clara. And she was suddenly certain she didn't want to find the Doctor as that girl, anyway.

She knew it was his when she spotted the large door with glass behind the bars. She hurried over and gave the door handle a pull, but of course it was locked. She went up onto her tiptoes and tapped her fingers against the glass impatiently.

"Doctor," she called. "It's Clara. I—"

She heard the buzzing of his instrument only a moment later. He yanked the door back, his tired features creased in concern.

"Clara," he blurted. He reached out and gently grasped her arm. Clara could hardly protest as he promptly pulled her right into his cell and shut the door after them.

"Hey—!"

"Not safe. You don't want a screw to see you here." He explained.

Her anger peaked.

"The screws can choke on—!"

"Shh! Shhh!" He insisted. His palm settled over her lips, rough and warm. She bit back her insults and nodded.

He spoke in quick whispers.

"They're starting to catch onto my sneaking out. They've been keeping an eye on me, to figure out how. If they hear you in here, they'll know I've somehow opened the door recently. They'll scan the cameras. If they take my sonic away, God only knows how long it'll take me to make another, if I can even get all the parts again, it took six years to get these in and—"

"Doctor," Clara interrupted. Her urgent tone got his attention. "Vastra's sick. Jenny thinks she's been poisoned. The screws won't send for a doctor."

His shift was instant. He looked down at her seriously, his brow pursed.

"What are her symptoms?"

"Lethargy and vomiting right now. She looked awful."

He turned and hurried over to his single bed. It looked worse than even hers, with a threadbare mattress and only three thin bed slats. The mattress sagged some between them. Clara noted the chill then, and as she rubbed her upper arms and turned around to examine his space, she felt that same chill settle in her heart. There were no small touches here, no personal belongings to bring comfort. He had a toilet, a sink, a metal dresser, that rickety bed, and one ceramic mug. She didn't see anything else; no clothing items, no paper, no pens, no watches that used to belong to a loved one that'd been lost in a fire. No books to sleep with at night. Even his blanket was thin and worn.

And, despite that, when she turned to seek him out with her eyes once more, she found him typing on a tablet, of all things.

"What…where did you get that?" She demanded.

He didn't even look up.

"Made it. All right, I searched the inmate database for those with medical training. There are one hundred doctors and nurses here, but you don't want to let just anyone come into the room, so—searching for the inmate with the least behavioral citations currently. He's all right—oh, no, his wing is too far away. There's—oh, wait. Yes. Dr. Martha Jones. She's only a wing down from yours, no behavioral strikes." He looked up. "We're paying Dr. Jones a visit."

With that, he soniced the door and strolled out, indifferent to his previous panic over losing his technology. It seemed he was more concerned for the wellbeing of Clara's cellmate, and that in itself was enough to convince her that he was good deep down. He had to be. He couldn't be in there for the same terrible things she was.

"But isn't there a prison doctor?" She hissed. She struggled to match his pace. "Why can't we just take Vastra to him?"

"There's a prison doctor, all right. But he thinks of himself as a less ambitious and dimmer version of Mengele."

Clara felt her stomach clench. She reached out and grasped his forearm, hoping he'd slow down. But he only reached over and set his hand over hers, as if ensuring she'd stay by his side no matter the pace.

"You can't be serious." Clara argued.

"I've got a butchered kneecap that'd beg to differ."

Clara glanced down automatically, as if she could see through his trousers.

"Perhaps I'll show you one day," he muttered offhandedly.

Clara felt her lips curl up wickedly. She looked away.

"Perhaps." She agreed lightly.

* * *

><p>Dr. Jones was readying for sleep when they showed up, but she dropped everything the minute she heard.<p>

"I know Vastra," she said, startled. "I came in the same day she did. What's wrong with her?"

"Her wife thinks she's been poisoned—I don't know. She's been vomiting, she's pale…"

Clara didn't even have to finish her sentence. Martha pushed her feet into her shoes and walked from her cell, without even bothering to see if they were following. Clara and the Doctor exchanged a quick look. Clara felt his hand settle on her lower back as he ushered her through the narrow doorway, intent on following Dr. Jones' path.

They made it all the way to Clara's wing without someone questioning their out-of-bounds traveling group. Clara didn't even spare the screw a moment's glance.

"Move." Clara ordered.

The screw lifted an eyebrow.

"Pardon?" She challenged.

Clara gestured at the doorway Dr. Jones was attempting to get through.

"My cell mate is ill. This is a doctor. You would not provide one, so we got one. Now _move_." She reiterated.

The screw stooped over and stared Clara dead in the eye.

"I don't know who you think you are, RY2227."

"Clara Oswald. This is the Doctor. And this is Dr. Jones." She moved forward and stepped past the screw. "Nice to meet you."

Dr. Jones and the Doctor were in her cell before the screw replied. She caught up to them and reached out, grasping Clara's forearm. She swung her around.

"You're making a series of poor choices today." She whispered.

Clara knew she should've been worried. But it was difficult to focus on that when she was so anxious and infuriated.

"So are you." She eyed the screw carefully. She took in her blonde ponytail, her pasty cheeks, her cracked lips. "I know all about it."

The screw furrowed her brow.

"What?" She barked. Her eyes darted quickly to the wall and back to Clara. "All about what?"

She knew she had her in that quick, panicked glance. Clara leaned forward. She invaded her space, knowing that'd make her feel vulnerable, and small. She'd mastered the art of making herself seem bigger than she was.

"Leave us be, and you'll never have to find out."

They held their tense, combative postures for another five seconds. And then, gradually, the screw shrank back. She adjusted her shirt afterwards, like she'd only moved for that reason. She cleared her throat gruffly.

"Your visitors better be out of your cell by lights out. Or it's straight to solitary for the three of you."

Clara watched her walk away, never once moving from the spot she'd claimed as her own until the screw was out of sight. And then she deflated. Her shoulders went down as she exhaled heavily and her hands went to her head. She cradled her scalp and shivered. It should've felt good to be home in herself again; it should've felt right to have sent that manipulative, dangerous part of herself away to hiding again. But it didn't. It felt barren, cold. Like she'd stripped herself down to her bare bones. (Like perhaps her true self was the bitch, and this self was the farce). John told her she was the greatest force of goodness he'd ever known. She wondered if he was a liar or if she'd really been changed that much.

Regardless, it all didn't matter right then. What mattered was Vastra, and when she entered her own cell, she was alarmed by what she saw. Vastra shaking uncontrollably in the Doctor's arms from her spot on the floor (she must've fallen), Dr. Jones frantically peering into her dilated eye with the light from the Doctor's door-opening sonic device. Clara felt woozy.

"Someone's put eye drops in her food," Dr. Jones decided. She turned the light off and sat back, peering worriedly at Vastra. "I don't have the tools at my disposal to do much. When did you last see her vomit?"

She aimed her question at Clara. She walked forward, arms wrapped around herself, and hurried to answer.

"Maybe fifteen to twenty minutes ago?"

Dr. Jones looked back down at her patient.

"She needs charcoal. She needs to be in hospital. The best we can do is give her something with laxative properties."

Vastra's tremors continued. The Doctor looked from her to Dr. Jones.

"She does need to be in hospital." He agreed. He was quiet for a moment, leaving Clara and Dr. Jones staring at him blankly. He looked to Clara. "Clara, could you pull Vastra's mattress onto the floor? I don't want her rolling off the bed again."

Clara exchanged a quick look with Dr. Jones. She obliged a moment later. She lifted the thin mattress and laid it horizontally in front of their cell door. She pulled the covers back and fixed the pillow right as Dr. Jones and the Doctor lifted Vastra up. They settled her down and Clara tucked her up, her hands quivering. She didn't want to admit how dependent she'd become on Vastra, but the truth of it was eating away at her heart. She stared down at her green tattoos. She fought the sudden, affectionate urge to trace over them with her fingertips, the way you touch something right before it disappears forever. Her fingers found her wristwatch instead. Her fingers thought about John. She did not. She forced her hand to let go of her watch, to find Vastra's cold fingers. She held them and realized the comradery she'd begun to feel with Vastra was more like a budding friendship. She always realized things too late.

"Where are you going?"

She reluctantly tugged her attention to Dr. Jones. She was staring towards the Doctor. And he was stepping over Vastra's bed, heading towards the door, his lips pursed. He stopped before he answered, his eyes finding Clara. They stared at each other for a long couple of seconds, and then he scanned his eyes down to her hand, latched around Vastra's. He looked back up.

"She's important to you?" He asked.

Clara looked down.

"She doesn't deserve to suffer."

She could feel his eyes still on her. His voice was low, brimming with something Clara couldn't put a name to right then.

"Is she important to you?" He echoed impatiently.

Clara looked up. She held his serious gaze as she nodded once. She licked her dry lips.

"She will be. Maybe she already is. I don't know. Even if I'm not to her, she is to me." _So are you and so is Jenny_. She did not say it, though. They had to have known. They had to have known how tightly and quickly you could wrap yourself around people in here, when you had literally nothing else. Perhaps not Vastra and Jenny, because they had a vast social circle. But the Doctor? He had to feel that same desperation, that same need to _keep them_.

It was like she'd just given him the answer to every question he'd ever had. His face flooded with understanding. He nodded decisively.

"All right, then," he said curtly. "That makes it very simple."

He didn't spare another word or glance as he turned from her cell. Dr. Jones jumped up, horrified.

"Oi!" She called after him. She hurried to the door and peered out at his retreating back. "Where're you going?! I need some assistance!"

Clara felt herself sinking down underneath her panic and confusion. She didn't understand. Was he letting her die because she was important to her? Had she been wrong about him—was he really as dangerous and psychotic as everyone made him out to be?

His voice echoed down the hall, returning to Dr. Jones.

"I'm getting your assistance."

Clara met Dr. Jones' confused eyes, hers broadcasting something similar.

"What?" She demanded. But he offered no other words. Clara was stuck at Vastra's bedside, so she wasn't sure, but she figured it likely he was already out of their wing.

"What is he going to do?" Clara demanded. "How's he going to get assistance?"

Dr. Jones shook her head. She sank back down beside Clara, her eyes on Vastra. She pressed her fingers to the pulse point in her throat as she replied.

"There's one good way to get the attention of the outside," she started. Clara glanced up at her questioningly. Dr. Jones lifted an eyebrow. "Escape. Or should I say—unsuccessful escape. You move outside these gates and you've got police, news reporters. Ambulances. We're the worst of the criminals, after all."

She'd begun shaking her head before Vastra even stopped speaking.

"What will they do to him for trying to escape?" She demanded. She knew she should've asked a million other things. Like _can he get the medical assistance to actually come into the prison? Will they let him speak to reporters if he can't get to them? Will he be able to save Vastra?_ But nothing seemed as pressing for a terrible moment. Her mind was a horrid reflective pool. She tried to look down into her thoughts, but all she saw staring back at her was the memory of the Doctor's body pressing hers against the bookshelf, his lips working hers, his fingers on the edges of her clothing. She blinked rapidly to refocus.

"He'll go to Hell—Hell being the solitary cells in the basement level. We've only had three people attempt to escape. They stay for about a month." She responded. She lowered her fingers from Vastra's neck. "She's practically bradycardic. Do you know where Jenny Flint's cell is? She should be here."

Clara rose, eager to be helpful in some way.

"No. No. But I'll find it."

And really, she meant it. As she said the words, she had no intention of doing anything but finding Jenny and bringing her here. She had no intentions of doing anything else as she left her cell. She had no intentions of doing anything else as she sent Jenny to her cell. She had no intentions of doing anything else even as she turned and walked in the opposite direction. But then again, she'd become a master at manipulating even herself.

She ran through the wings, checking each side exit, only to realize he wouldn't try to sneak out if he wanted to make a scene. He'd just stroll right through the front doors. What could be more unnerving than that?

She hadn't even known she knew him so well. She was out of breath when she came to a shuddering stop in front of him. Her hand reached up and grabbed his bony shoulder. She held tight.

"What are you doing here?" He snapped. He pushed her hand off his shoulder. "Go back to your cell."

She clenched her fists as her hands fell to her sides.

"No."

He looked exasperated.

"Clara. I'm trying to help Vastra. I'm trying to help _you_. Now go." He ordered.

She narrowed her eyes slightly.

"_No_." She repeated. In a rush of recklessness, her next words swelled between them. "If you go out there, I'm coming."

It stunned him. She watched his impressive eyebrows rise high on his face.

"Pardon?"

They didn't have a lot of time. She could feel that antsy realization crawling over her skin, over the back of her neck, down her spine. She practically bounced impatiently on her feet as the words spilled rapidly from her lips.

"You've been living alone in that awful cell for twenty years, and I don't know what you did to get here, maybe you did something terrible, maybe you did something worse than me, I don't know. But I know that you helped me and you're trying now to help my friend—and I know that someone who would do those things doesn't deserve to spend a month in a basement, living in terrible conditions that I'm probably severely underestimating in my expectations. I don't know you, but I promised I'd stick around to change that, and I can't very well do that if you're locked away in "Hell", can I?"

He looked away. His voice was gruff, uneasy.

"Go back to your cell, Clara." He repeated.

"Don't make me break my promise. Don't turn me into a liar." She waited until he glanced back to her. She nodded towards the door. "We'll walk right out of here together—won't that just leave the Senior Prison Officer in a state?"

"Clara Oswald," he snapped. She lifted her eyebrows. "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into. Solitary isn't a joke. It isn't something to subject yourself to on some grand, sweeping, noble gesture. It's horrible. I would know. It makes you different. Darker. It makes you see parts of yourself that you didn't even—"

He looked down and away. Clara scanned her eyes down to his chest. She counted his panicked, heaving breaths. He was so skilled at hiding those emotions from showing on his face, but his body gave him away.

"It would devastate you." He finished. He looked back up. "I'm doing this for you, you foolish woman. Say thank you and_ go_."

"Make me." She bit. Her challenging words were grinding. The first set of rapidly approaching footsteps gave her such a rush of adrenaline that it was almost pleasurable. She turned back and resisted the urge to grin.

"Clara—" he growled.

She skidded right up to his side. She reached over and she wrapped her hand around his elbow tightly.

"They're coming, it's now or never." She pointed out needlessly. In her rush of energy, she winked. "See you in Hell."

"No you won't, that's the poi—"

"OI! HEY! WHAT'RE YOU DOING DOWN HERE, GET BACK FROM THE DOOR, RIGHT NOW! Where're the guards?!"

"Fucking hell, it's _those two_—call Hanson! And the authorities!"

The Doctor pressed down on his device right as the guards bore down on them. The minute the lock clicked, they took off running through the door. Clara had to tighten her hand on his elbow so hard she was sure her nails were digging into his skin. She gasped, struggling to keep up with his long-legged pace.

"I thought—you said—it wouldn't do the outside doors—" she shrieked.

He turned and glanced behind them at the advancing guards. His eyes were wild as he replied.

"It's the gate it doesn't work on!" He gestured in a panic towards the towering wooden fence ahead of them. "The fence! Doesn't do wood!"

"Oh for God's—sake!" Clara panted. Her calf muscles were burning. She hadn't realized how long she'd been out of the army till that moment. "Let's ram it!"

"With _what_?!"

"Well, it's a wooden gate—it's got to have a simple locking mechanism, it's obviously for looks and not to keep us in, since the actual doors are supposed to do that, so—"

She had no time to catch her breath as they stopped in front of the gate door. She eyed the intricate carvings until she found the latch. Her arms felt light as she tuned and reached over, snatching the Doctor's device from his hands.

"What—"

She lifted it above her head and brought it down on the iron handle. She beat over it ceaselessly, even after her arms felt heavy and weak, until it finally ripped just barely from the wood. She tossed the device back towards the Doctor blindly. He caught it and watched her with an almost spellbound expression.

"Kick it with me!" She ordered.

"Sure your legs can reach?"

"Now is _not _the time!"

They kicked at it until it proved futile, and then they took a step back and ran forward, ramming it hard with their shoulders. On the fourth hit, it gave a pathetic snapping sound, and the latch sprang free. The force of their hit sent them spiraling forward through the opened door. They fell down hard onto the pavement, and it knocked the breath completely and utterly from Clara.

She felt a screw's boot press down over her lower back. The skin on her cheek broke open from the rough texture of the pavement. She had been in this position too many times now.

"Get up," the screw growled.

She could hear sirens in the distance. She turned her aching face to the side. She stared at the back of the Doctor's face.

"We were so close," she lamented. She painted tears onto her tone. She reached over and she caressed his hair. He was genuine in his farce as he reached over and grasped her hand, turning his face towards hers just in time to press his lips to her palm. He kissed over the scrapes on her palm once, twice, and then he flipped her hand over and kissed the inside of her wrist. In the midst of all the pain, adrenaline, and chaos, she shouldn't have felt a thing. But her heart jumped in her throat and her body pulsed with unexpected, quick arousal.

She estimated the authorities were only half a minute away at max. She slid over to him and paid no mind to the worrying pressure the screw placed on her back as she did. He stepped down harder, but she was touching the Doctor's scraped up face. It was a necessary thing, she told herself. She had to do this. For Vastra, to maintain their lies. But when she pressed her lips to his, she forgot to be dedicated to anything but the taste of him.

They allowed it to happen for perhaps three seconds. And then a screw reached down, grabbed Clara's shoulders, and yanked her upright. The Doctor received equal treatment. But it didn't matter, because police were flooding out of opened vehicles.

Clara went limp in the screw's arms at first. She waited until he adjusted the pressure of his hold accordingly—and then she struggled ferociously. She sprang free from his hold and bolted forward.

"Listen," she cried. She held her hands up and stopped as soon as she was near enough that they'd be able to hear her. "My cell mate is poisoned. They refuse to give her medical assistance. She's going to die!"

She didn't know if that was true, but she had to say it anyway.

"Likely story, you—"

Someone stepped forward from another vehicle.

"Wait," he called. "Let her speak."

She reached up impatiently and wiped at the blood dripping down into her eyes. "We just want a doctor to look at her. She needs medical assistance. Please, come look at her. Send someone to look at her. You'll know we're not lying."

"Mickey Smith."

Clara turned at the sound of the Doctor's voice. He struggled against the officer's hold halfheartedly, but it was obvious his words were weapon enough. The man who'd been listening to Clara stopped and turned. He stared uneasily at the Doctor.

"How do you—"

"Right now, her cell mate has the best doctor there is. But without her tools, the doctor cannot help. She's had to put so many people out of their misery. So many patients who were beyond help. She's in prison now for the rest of her life for helping to end all that suffering—don't make her responsible for another death." He urged. His words turned soft. "You know she doesn't deserve that."

Clara wasn't sure why, but those words profoundly affected the man, Mickey Smith.

"Stand down." He ordered the men around him.

"What—"

"Send for a doctor from the closest hospital." He looked to the screw standing behind Clara. "I want to see your SPO. Where's your on-site doctor? You're required to have twenty-four-hour care available for these inmates."

The screw looked floored. He floundered for words.

"I—he's—ill. He's ill right now. So we couldn't send him. We were in the process of—filing for—a transfer for this inmate's cellmate."

All the screws expected Clara and the Doctor to argue. She only had to look back at him once to understand they were going about it differently.

"We wanted to speed things up," she added. "We're so worried."

Mickey Smith stopped.

"So they _are _sending for someone?" He asked.

"Yes. But sometimes they have a hard time getting through security at the front of the road. Could you stay and make sure they get in all right?" The Doctor asked.

Clara glanced at him slyly from the corner of her eye.

Mickey Smith turned and glanced back at the way they'd come.

"It is a bit extensive. Sure, I will. And I think I'm going to be paying special mind to this place when I see the Director-General of HMPS."

Clara turned and spotted three screws hurrying back into the prison, mobile phones pressed to their ears. No doubt frantically calling a doctor to show up to back up their story. While they did that, the two screws who'd been restraining Clara and the Doctor were looking at them in confusion. Which is how Clara preferred it.

"Thank you," she whispered. She flooded her voice with genuine relief. "Thank you so much, Mickey Smith."

"Dr. Jones will be grateful, too," the Doctor called. Something about his tone made Clara certain it was a code of some sort, but she didn't know enough to even begin to break it.

Satisfied that Vastra would be all right, she didn't even fight as she was restrained again. She let them shove her roughly into the prison.

"You've really done it now," the screws whispered nastily to them. "I'm rushing a citation as we speak. You're to go to lower solitary immediately."

For the first time that night, Clara remembered Danny. Her heart tumbled brutally to her toes. She hadn't remembered—in her rush, in her concern, she'd forgotten. She had no idea when he was coming. It could've been tomorrow for all she knew. She wouldn't be able to phone or write him—she'd just…not be there. Her chest ached with regret, but she wouldn't let them see it.

"Let's go then," she ordered.

"You're boring us," the Doctor added.

She knew he—like her—would've rather died than let them get to them. And as they approached dark, stone steps, she thought perhaps they might.


	7. Second Circle

**A/n: Please note that the rating has changed to M. **

* * *

><p>"<em>Which circle of hell do you think we'd go to?" <em>

_John looked up from his communicator. He looked adorably baffled to Clara, sitting in his boxers and opened button down. His uniform was hanging neatly on the front of the wardrobe, waiting for the man who seemed in no rush at all to move. Clara watched him smack the side of the bulky contraption a few times before he processed her question. _

"_Oh, I don't know, Clara," he muttered dismissively. He hit it a few more times. "I wouldn't really care as long as we were together." _

_Clara lifted Dante's _Divine Comedy _higher, shielding her face as she smiled. She crossed her stretched out legs and shimmied somewhat impatiently. The smooth sensation of her loose silk pajamas bottoms against her bare skin threatened to put ideas back into her head, but she cleared her throat and refocused on the page before she let her body go there. They had briefings to go to. She had to ignore the fact that all she wanted was to pull his underwear back off him. _

"_Well, I know which one I'd go to." She continued. _

_He began muttering angrily underneath his breath, frustrated with the tech in his hand. Clara shifted down lower on the bed, so her feet were closer to him. She watched him huff and fiddle with the handheld radio device for a moment longer. _

"_Yep." She said. She pressed the arches of her feet against his hip. She slid her left foot up and over to the top of his upper thigh. He was oblivious. "I'd go to the second circle." _

"_The second?" He jumped as the radio made a fizzing noise. He quickly turned the volume down, something Clara found humorous. As if he needed to hide anything on that radio. She was _his _superior. _

"_When are you going to give me one of those?" She asked. "I'm your commander. Why do you have better tech than I do?" _

_He turned to look at her finally. His eyes lit up as they always did. She watched his lips curl up slowly with a warm smile, hers echoing the action. _

"_I told you. This is a personal radio. Not an air force thing." He sighed. _

_Clara snorted. "Who're you going to talk to on that thing? We've got mobiles now, you know." _

"_What can I say," he commented lightly. "I'm old-fashioned." _

_Clara scanned her eyes down from his disheveled hair, to his strong but lanky build, and then finally to his wrist. She stared affectionately at his antique wristwatch. _

"_That you are." She couldn't stop herself. She edged her foot over slowly, carefully. He was oblivious until she gently moved it into his lap. _

"_Clara," he warned. _

"_The second circle would have great company at least," _

_He swallowed hard, his hands stilling. He lowered the device and let his eyes flutter shut for a brief moment. Clara was particular about where in his lap her foot was rubbing._

"_Dido, Paris, Cleopatra…" she trilled off. She watched him swallow hard. "Oh, and Helen of Troy. The face that launched a thousand ships. I'd love to sit on that." _

_He sputtered, his eyes going wide. _

"ClaraOswald!"

_Her lips twitched against the desire to laugh. But she'd decided to toy with him, and it wasn't a decision she was willing to go back on anytime soon. She turned her focus to her own hips. She yanked the waist of her pajama bottoms and slid them easily down to her calves. The soft sound of the silk against his duvet got John's attention. He turned to look at her, cheeks already pinking. The sight of her naked—save her loose camisole— was enough to finally free him of his "personal radio communicator". _

"_We'll be late," he reminded her. But the way his eyes were consuming her skin made Clara certain he was only saying it because he felt it was expected. Clara waited until he'd turned fully towards her, and then she deliberately parted her legs. _

"_Not if you stop gaping and get over here." _

_He paused for a moment, and in that moment, Clara could feel the time they'd spent apart weighing on her. They'd reunited for the first time in three weeks last night, but Clara still missed him. Still felt the desire to devour him like he was due to die at any moment. She smiled as he yanked his boxers off and came to her side. He reached for her, first and foremost, and Clara melded easily into his hug._

"_I've missed you," she whispered. She pressed her nose into his neck and kissed his skin. She ran her hands down his back, to his bottom. She closed her eyes as he pressed against her. "Don't go away again." _

_He exhaled against her hair as she lifted a leg and hooked it over his hip. _

"_I've missed you too, Clara Oswald," he breathed. She ducked her head and ran her nose over his collarbone as he stroked his hands over her skin. "But, you know, you're the one who sent me off." He reminded her. _

"_Not by choice. Arnold and I fought viciously. Next time, he won't win. If he thinks I won't turn against him, he's wrong. He's—oh, Jesus—"_

_John's fingers wandered and sought. Clara felt pleasure course through her as he dotted upon what he'd found. His words were delivered quietly into her hair. _

"_Frightening. Are you sure the second circle's for you? Are you sure you're not thinking of the ninth? You can be a treacherous little thing." _

"_Mmmm, I'm sure, I'm sure," she murmured. She reached down and batted his hand away impatiently. "I want to fuck you, not your hand. I've got one of those." _

"_Bossy!" _

"_Well, I am your boss." _

"_True. So what do you want, _boss_?" _

_She pushed against him until he went off balance and flopped over onto his back. She slid over and perched on his upper thighs, her hands finding his shoulders. She could feel him digging into her abdomen as she leaned over. _

"_I want you," she started. She paused. _

"…_yes?" _

"_To open your mouth…" _

"_Yes…"_

"_And…tell me what circle of hell you'd go to. It's very important to me." _

_He watched her hand grip him. His eyes went wide as he cast them to the ceiling. He licked his lips. _

"_Uh…well," his breath left in a groan. "Well. I'd have to say. Uh. I'd say….the eighth." _

_Clara stopped her hand. _

"_The eighth? Fraud?" _

"_Yes. Why'd you stop?" He whined. _

"_Why the eighth? Which bolgia?" _

"_I'm not the literature lover, Clara. That's you." _

"_Well, are you a seducer, a flatterer, a simonist..."_

_He sighed. "Clara, do you want to have sex or do you want to discuss Dante's _Inferno_?" _

"_I was kind of hoping we could do both."_

_She was only half-teasing. She felt his hands grasp her waist, and before she could say a word, he flipped them over. She squirmed underneath him as he kissed down the left side of her neck, her laughter building fast in her throat. He knew how ticklish she was there. _

"_I've never read it," he admitted between kisses. _

_Clara felt her eyes go wide. _

"Wha —"

_Her cry of outrage crumbled before it ever saw the morning light. His downward path of kissing was the culprit. _

"_You have to read it," she managed to breathe. She moaned loudly. "As soon as—as soon as you're done with this." _

_The warmth and vibrations of his words affected her physically, but the tender tone was what pulled her heart apart. _

"_I love you, Clara. "_

_It sounded like an apology. Suddenly, his ministrations _felt _like an apology. _

"_What?" _

"_I love you." He repeated, this time softer, gentler. She was sure she'd misread his previous admission. _

_Clara lifted up onto her elbows. She reached down and she grasped his funny chin. _

"_Kiss me." _

"_I am." _

"_My lips, I mean. And that's an order." _

_She felt pleasantly warm as he lowered his body back over hers. She kissed him slowly, taking time to really appreciate the sensation. In the rush of love, she forgot that he'd known what the ninth circle was. Which might've tipped her off to the fact that he wasn't as oblivious to the concepts as he pretended. _

"_Eighth circle," she laughed. "You just picked a random number, didn't you?" _

_He didn't respond. And at the time, she thought nothing of it, because they were getting caught up in something else rather quickly. _

_But it stuck in her memory._

* * *

><p>Eighth circle, eighth bolgia.<p>

Deceivers.

* * *

><p><em>Are you sure you aren't thinking of the ninth circle, Clara? <em>

She had a lustful heart. But she was a treacherous soul.

* * *

><p>If there was one person who saw that clearly, it was the SPO. He looked at her and the Doctor like they were shit caked on the bottom of his shoe. There was no other way to describe the way he curled his upper lip and glared.<p>

"I'd say I'll feel bad for you two, but I won't."

It was his greeting and his parting words. He didn't tell them how long they were to be down in "Hell". He didn't tell them what the official charges in their files would be, or if Vastra was okay, or anything. Clara watched him go and felt, had her wrists not been bound in handcuffs, that she could've made her death count twelve.

She and the Doctor had just enough time to exchange a disgusted look, but then they were being tugged to their feet. Clara turned and stared over her shoulder as they pulled her down the opposite end of the hallway than the Doctor. She wouldn't have admitted she was scared, but her heart was quivering. The last thing she saw was the Doctor's quick, reassuring nod. And then she was shoved headlong into an impossibly tiny cell.

Before she could say a word, the steel door slammed shut. She was thrust into complete darkness.

"Great," she murmured. She turned and took two steps to the right. Her shoulder made contact with a wall. She walked along the short walls for a few moments, and then finally, she heard the crackling of the lights fizzing on. Light flooded the tiny cell a few seconds later. But really, it wasn't much of an improvement.

Clara stared at what was supposed to be the mattress. It was lying in the middle of the room on the floor and it was scarcely thicker than a camping mat. There was no blanket, no pillow. She turned slowly on the spot and took in the incredibly tiny room. The only other thing was a toilet and rusty sink. It was her home for the next month or so, maybe more.

She thought she'd be lucky to make it a week.

* * *

><p>The days went like this:<p>

The groaning of the prison pipes woke her every morning at five. She tossed and turned for two hours, trying to find a position to sleep in that wouldn't aggravate her aching spine, but she gave up by breakfast. At seven, the door opened long enough for a screw to set a tray down atop the rusted sink. It had a piece of toast and an apple. She received no tea.

She tried to keep herself busy until lunch. She closed her eyes and recited all the stories she knew by heart. She sang every song she could remember the lyrics to underneath her breath. She thought about pleasuring herself to while away the time, but the mood never stuck long enough to get very far. She was angry and frightened and frustrated, but not in any way to bring about any pleasure. Just enough for her to sit and simmer. By the time her lunch tray appeared—laden with the reliable combination of soggy vegetables and beans—she was ready to scream. She received no tea.

The last part of the day was always the most torturous. It was then that she thought of all the men of her life in a chaotic tangle. She thought of John first, always, with aching sadness and longing. In her search for comfort, her mind moved to Danny, to her other best friend, to his broad shoulders and calm, reliable heart. But then she felt so incredibly awful about him coming all the way to the prison only to hear she couldn't even see him that she was eager to cast him away for the time being. And then, somehow, her mind flew to the Doctor. Like he belonged there. She thought of him in his cell. She wondered what he was doing, how he was coping. She wondered what he was doing to while away the time. She wondered if he was plotting, or sleeping, or being a bit more successful with self-pleasuring than she'd been. Mostly, she wondered if he was wondering about her, too.

Dinner came and she usually felt too sick to eat it. She received no tea. She'd leave it on top of the sink. If she was lucky, she'd fall asleep. If she was not, she'd think about her mum and John, and she'd miss them terribly until she cried herself to sleep.

On the third day of this, she caught herself mumbling to herself.

On the fourth, she woke up from nightmares, uncertain for a while whether or not they'd really happened.

On the fifth, a folded up piece of paper arrived with her breakfast, along with a pen and flimsy notebook.

_I've got it worked out. Osgood—our new food deliverer—is terribly kindhearted and way too trusting. She'll deliver letters with our meals. How are you doing? How is your cell? _

That was all. It was a mere five sentences. But Clara was so relieved she wept. She hadn't realized how weak she felt until she went to compose a reply and found her fingers shook a lot more than they ought to.

_I'm okay. Or, well, I'm alive. I'm going mad with boredom—how do you do this every day? I've run out of things to do. I've even ran out of things to think about. And it hasn't even been a week. I don't know how I'm going to make it. How are you holding up? Please write back soon. Thank you for the note. You can't imagine how much I needed it. _

She thought about editing it before she sent it to make it sound less needy, but she was afraid to do so. She was worried if she came off as too tranquil, he'd think her all right and not even bother to reply. She didn't know if he needed the correspondence as much as she did. She couldn't risk losing it.

But perhaps he was just as lost as she was. Because she received a reply with the next meal.

_You get used to it. You learn how to think without thinking. I'm all right, though my entire body is ruined because of the sorry excuse for a mattress. And these bloody pipes keep me awake all night long. If you're bored, tell me something. Anything you like. It can be as long as you like. Stay calm and take it hour by hour._

* * *

><p><em>Is it legal for them to leave us in conditions like this? I don't think it is. And those pipes do the same to me—it's banging all night long and all morning long. Drives me to the edge, I swear. I've been thinking of Dante's <em>Divine Comedy_, which I suppose is fitting given our hellish standards, but it's got me thinking again about where I'd go. It was simple before all this. I could place myself easily. But now, after having done so much wrong, I feel I'd have to split myself into three parts and go to three different circles to atone for it all. What about you? What circle would you go to?_

* * *

><p><em>It's decidedly not legal. But you'd be surprised at just how much they can get away with.<em>

_Theoretically, I'd probably have to do the same. Though perhaps more parts than yours. What circles will you be in? Perhaps we'll run into each other._

* * *

><p><em>Today I'm atoning for lust, treachery, and violence. Will we spot each other?<em>

* * *

><p><em>We will absolutely spot each other. Though part of me will spend time in the sixth circle as well.<em>

* * *

><p><em>Wrath? That's quite the repertoire you've got. Lust, treachery, deception, wrath. We could start an uprising.<em>

* * *

><p><em>We're the only ones who could. (But, to any prison screws reading this, we mean strictly metaphorical and in Dante's version of Hell.) I'm well aware of what you've done to get labeled a betrayer and a liar, but I have to admit I'm a bit interested in what you've done to get thrown in with the lust-ridden.<em>

* * *

><p><em>I'm interested in what you've done to get landed here. You tell me, I'll tell you.<em>

* * *

><p><em>I will tell you. But not like this. Besides, doesn't take much to guess what sort of deeds get you thrown in the second circle. I wonder: how's the lust been so far?<em>

* * *

><p><em>How's yours been?<em>

* * *

><p><em>Practically nonexistent. Until you got here.<em>

* * *

><p><em>Bit forward of you, Doctor. Should I even bother asking what you've been doing to keep yourself busy?<em>

* * *

><p><em>There's that egomania I love so much. I might ask you the same thing.<em>

* * *

><p><em>It is genuinely disappointing and unfortunate to report that I have honestly and truly been doing nothing. I've got to be happy to want to give into lust, and this environment isn't exactly thrilling.<em>

* * *

><p><em>Oh, the body wants what the body wants, Clara. You might just need some assistance.<em>

* * *

><p><em>You offering?<em>

* * *

><p><em>I can't believe I waited four hours for a two-worded reply.<em>

* * *

><p><em>I can't believe you didn't even reply.<em>

* * *

><p><em>Were I there, it'd be a serious offer. It'd be a proposition. I'd already be touching you.<em>

* * *

><p><em>How?<em>

* * *

><p>She waited. Lunch came without a note. She waited. Dinner arrived with nothing to offer. She huffed and she paced for hours, frustrated with him in every way a person could be.<p>

"Fine," she muttered. She tugged impatiently on the hem of her shirt. "It's not like I cared anyway."

But of course, there was no one there to save face for. She was faced with overwhelming emptiness once more.

* * *

><p>She woke up briefly in the middle of the night to the sound of water trickling.<p>

She assumed it was the rubbish toilet and rolled over.

She woke up three hours later to the sound of gurgling.

And she assumed it was the rubbish pipes and rolled over.

By the time she was gasping awake, half-way submerged in water, her cell was a pond and she was swimming. Had she an actual bed, instead of a mat on the floor, she would've been fine. But she wasn't, and the water had risen above her far quicker than she would have anticipated.

She sprang up from the mat and stood on the sodden, floating mess that had been her bed, the freezing water chilling her to the bone. Her uniform clung tightly to her body and she began shaking almost immediately, feeling her body temperature plummeting from the water she'd been lying in. She looked to the toilet and sink, but they weren't spouting any water. She turned her head and followed the sound of running water. She stared at the vent right below the banging pipes. Something had burst during the night; water was pounding from the vent at an alarming rate. She waded across the room and slammed her fist into the door.

"Hey!" She screamed. "It's flooding in here!"

She beat her hands against the door a few more times, but after two minutes passed, she realized it was fruitless. If they were going to come, they would, and nothing she did could change that. The water was mid-calf now. She scanned her eyes around her aquatic cell before making an action plan. She moved over to the sink and sat atop it, trying to stay out of the ice cold water for as long as possible. She twisted the excess water from her clothes and rubbed her arms, trying her best to heat up. She must've sat on that sink for at least fifteen minutes, quivering and chattering her teeth, before a screw finally opened the door. It seemed the water was universal; the hall was halfway flooded as well.

"Out!" The screw ordered. She had on tall Wellies and her top half was miraculously dry. She even had a coat on. "Now!"

Clara hopped off the sink and treaded through the deep water. It felt like needles stabbing into her thighs, and by the time she was halfway down the hall, her lower half was completely numb. The screw led her to the holding cell at the very end of the hallway and pointed towards the open doorway. Clara looked down at the water and back up at her.

"_Seriously_?!" She demanded. "You're keeping me down here?! It's flooded! I'm going to get hypothermia!"

"In." The screw commanded.

Clara stared at her. She was debating whether or not to comply; she sized her up with her eyes and did quick predictions in her mind of the consequences to each action she could take. She was highly considering telling the screw to stick it when she heard loud splashing from inside the room. She turned, her attention divided, and peeked in. The Doctor waved back from the halfway submerged bench he was sitting on.

Clara licked her lips and turned back to the screw.

"All right," she said. "In I go."

"Good choice. The water will be drained soon." The screw snapped.

Clara suddenly didn't care so much. The prospect of being with another human for the first time in over a week had excited her to the point of tears. She practically swam over to him, indifferent to the frigid water now. She moved over and sat on the bench beside him. The water reached her knees. She and the Doctor looked at each other and both seemed to know to wait. They didn't say a word until the screw shut the door behind Clara and secured it.

Clara turned fully towards the Doctor. She reached down and tugged in annoyance at her shirt plastered to her skin.

"You never wrote me back." She greeted.

His eyebrows rose high on his face. He stared at her impassively for a beat, but then a gradual smirk worked itself up on his face.

"Clara," he began. Her name fell from his lips almost musically. "What do you think this is?"

"A rubbish reenactment of the second half of Titanic?" She tried.

"No. This is your reprieve." He gestured around them. "Granted, I didn't actually plan the pipes, but I convinced them to place us both here so the people working on the pipes could work _safely _in our cells. Without worrying about us harming them."

Clara glanced down at him. His uniform was stuck to his skin just as hers was, and she was certain he was freezing too, but he'd never looked happier to be somewhere (that Clara had seen). She turned her head slightly to the right as she mulled over his words.

"Thank you," she told him genuinely. "How long do you think it'll take them to fix this?"

"Hours. Those pipes should've been replaced decades ago. It was only a matter of time." His eyes went soft. It was a special sight Clara hadn't seen very often. "You look exhausted."

She studied the circles underneath his eyes.

"You do, too."

They stared at each other for a beat longer without saying anything. Clara looked down at the water around them.

"So," she began. She licked her lips. "Here I am. You get to write me back in person."

"I don't want to tell you." He said dismissively.

Clara gave him a mildly annoyed look. "Okay? We'll talk about something else, then. God, it feels so incredibly good to hear someone else's voice, I was getting so _sick_—"

"I want to show you."

She stopped. She stared at him, eyes wide. She listened to the constant roar of the water.

"Show me…what?" She asked. Even though she hadn't forgotten for a moment.

"I want to show you how I'd touch you."

He was waiting for something. Clara could see that now. It was in everything he did: from the tense way he was sitting, to the way his eyes examined her every move and expression carefully. She wondered if he'd thought she was teasing him. He looked almost frightened of rejection, of all things.

The lower half of her body was so cold it was almost numb, but somehow, that only made the surge of excitement she felt even more jarring.

"I'd like for you to." She admitted carefully. There was a wordless _but_ tacked onto the end of her statement, but he skimmed past it.

She watched his face open with surprise.

"Really?"

She shifted closer.

"How long has it been since you've been with someone?" She asked curiously.

"At least six years. There was a woman—River Song. She was here on transfer. She's in some Russian prison now."

Clara wasn't sure why those words made her feel a rush of negative emotion. She didn't want to call it jealousy, but she had to admit she felt a bit annoyed. As if she'd taken fully to the idea that she was his Only One. There was a certain power to being the only person someone had. There was so much control to be had there. She'd known that subconsciously from the moment she first realized he'd been protecting her.

"Was it nice?"

He considered her question. His eyes drifted down to her lips. Her breath hitched as he lifted his hand from the water and reached forward, pinching the material of her wet shirt. He pulled it out, unsticking it from her skin. It took her a moment to realize why he was staring at her shirt with such an expression. She was cold, after all.

"It was all right." He finally said. His eyes met hers. "But I think being with you would be worlds better."

She wished she could've just accepted the flattery and moved on. But it stuck in her mind.

"Why?" She wanted to know.

"Because I already know I love the feel and the taste of you."

She shivered again, but this time it wasn't so much from the water.

"What would you like to do with me?"

"Fuck you."

She leaned closer.

"How?"

He countered her movement with his own. She could feel the warmth from his breath on her face.

"However you'd like."

"Hard?" Her voice tucked lowly, suggestively.

"Do you like hard?"

"I asked you first." Clara countered.

He grinned wickedly. "Oh, you are quite the control freak. Yes. Hard."

"Good. Because that's how I'd like it."

His hands moved to her upper thighs. She resisted the urge to look down and follow his touch with her eyes. She stared back at him and she reveled in the chills erupting throughout her body as he moved his hands closer and closer to the waistband of her trousers. She allowed her eyes to flutter shut for a moment as his nails drew lightly over the sensitive skin just underneath the band of her underwear. And then she reached down and cupped his hands in hers.

"When I trust you, when I know you," she began. She thought about all he'd done for her already, about all he'd done for Vastra. She held his hands tightly. "I'll fuck you like you deserve. And I'll enjoy every moment."

A part of her was afraid he'd be angry. But his eyes bore into hers the same as before, intense and controlled.

"What about what you deserve?" He asked. He stroked his thumbs over the backs of her hands, as if determined to touch her wherever she'd allow it.

"I don't deserve anything." She forced the right side of her lips up in a half-hearted smile. "I'm a permanent fixture in hell."

He frowned deeply. Lines carved in his forehead as he did. Clara watched his eyes flutter about the room as he seemed to be mulling something over.

"I don't agree. But I understand."

Clara smiled.

"Well, that's very mature of you."

"It's almost like I'm a fifty-year-old man."

"Almost." He moved his hands from hers and settled them on the bench beside him. She watched them and realized as her stomach dropped that that wasn't exactly what she'd wanted. "Do you know what I want?"

The second circle was beckoning. It had been a long time since she'd heard the welcome tune.

"No, what is that?"

But his eyes were dancing with knowledge.

"I want you to give me something to think about when I'm back in my cell."

"I can do that for you." He said. He arched an eyebrow slowly. "What would you like?"

"Surprise me. Within reason." She ordered. And then—in a terribly new and almost uncharacteristically submissive manner—she shut her eyes. She had never put herself in the dark before. She was always the one with open eyes, always the one in control. She felt her heart beat pick up as she heard the bench creak beneath them. She could sense he was nearer, and for a moment she was frightened-why should she trust him? She had been vague about the boundaries. She had been vague about everything. She shouldn't assume he'd just know what to do or how to satisfy the aching she had without taking it too far and shattering the slight trust she held. But then again, she was at rock bottom. She was without all her control. And she was still breathing.

And yet, she wasn't surprised when she felt his hands cupping her cheeks. He swept his thumbs over her cheekbones. She didn't understand why it felt so wonderful.

"You feel beautiful. Did you know people could feel beautiful? It's in the bones of your face. It's in the curve of your nose. The shape of your lips." He shared. Her heart crawled up her throat and beat incessantly as she felt him looming nearer. His face was in front of hers, she was certain of it, but his lips never made contact with hers. Not even when she parted them. Instead, he pressed a soft kiss to the bridge of her nose. It twitched by instinct. "Especially your nose."

"Rambling now," Clara whispered. As if she wasn't enjoying every bit of his attention.

He hummed. "Well, after going so long without talking to anyone, it tends to happen."

She could feel his breath against her lips. He was achingly close, so close she shifted on the bench impatiently, her muscles drawn tight with tension. After a horrifyingly frustrating thirty seconds, she broke.

"Kiss me," she demanded.

"That's too easy."

"You built a tablet in a prison cell. Everything's too easy for you." Clara complained.

His fingers moved to her hair. He ran his nails lightly over her scalp and leaned forward. His cheek rested against hers. Each word was a burst of hot air against her ear.

"I know exactly how I'd touch you." He admitted softly. Clara briefly registered the sound of approaching footsteps, but she was too caught up to care. She pressed her cheek against his. Each deep inhalation and exhalation caused her breasts to brush softly against his chest. He purposely moved closer. She told herself it was the sticky air that made her breathing rate increase. "First, I'd trace down your spine. It's a lovely spine." She swallowed as his right hand dropped from her hair. It snaked up the bottom of her shirt. His fingers moved to her spine, stroking gently. "Like so."

"Good introduction," Clara murmured. "What's your body paragraph?"

"Your navel. It's the midway point, the home port. And it's so easy to trace my fingers from here—" he tapped over her spine gently—"to here." He drew his hand around to the front of her body. She clenched her thighs together as his fingers took interest in her lower stomach immediately. "It's sensitive, I take it. Ticklish?"

"Not the word I'd use."

"Brilliant." His fingers inched lower, and lower, and Clara's legs grew shaky. She was about to tell him to forget what she'd said before. She was about to eat her own words in her rush of lust. But he stopped his hand precisely where she'd stopped him before.

"Like so. Shall I continue with words?"

Words were suddenly all she had. It was better than nothing.

"Yes." Her voice was tighter than she would've liked. She felt her arousal was too transparent.

"I'd push my hand beneath those regulation knickers and I'd cup you, the heel of my hand at the top, fingers applying pressure over you but never entering. And I think I know exactly what you'd do. You'd rock into my hand. You'd take control, and you'd cry out, and then—I'd pull away."

Her eyes fluttered open. Her cheeks were pink and her tone was flustered.

"No!" She argued. "Why? Keep going."

She hadn't expected it. She'd just moved to lean back, so she could see his face, when his mouth pressed to hers. His tongue brushed past her lips and pushed against hers. She squirmed, thighs still pushed together, pulse throbbing in her ears. He stroked his fingertips lightly over her navel as they kissed.

She was left wanting when he pulled away.

"Because I'd never make you do my work for me." He finally answered.

"They've freed up two solitary cells on main for the night. Up. Detach yourself."

The screw's voice had never been more unwelcome. Clara turned, horrified. She'd forgotten how cold she was for a moment. She'd even forgotten the fact that she was in sopping wet clothes. She just knew she wanted to stay with the Doctor.

"You'll give Clara a dry uniform, right?" The Doctor asked. She felt his hand moved to her hip. "She's definitely going to need it."

_Oh, the bastard_. His implications were plenty clear to her, even if the screw just assumed he was referring to the water situation only.

"Perhaps." The screw replied dully. "Come along."

"Perhaps?" She demanded. "You can't leave us in soaking wet uniforms all night."

"We can do what we like. And you know what? We will. Who's going to stop us?" The screw sneered.

Clara considered smacking her across the mouth. The Doctor's hand settled on her shoulder as they stood.

"We should carve that on her headstone," he whispered. "Famous last words of an idiot."

Clara's lips curled up.

"What are you smiling about?" The screw sneered. She walked over and reached down, grabbing onto Clara's wrist tightly. She gave her a hard tug. "Get moving."

Sweet Clara sulked away. The ugly part of herself surged forward. She reached out and grasped onto the screw's wrist. She held tighter than she'd been held.

"Do that again and you won't have a hand to touch me with."

The Doctor's hand came out of nowhere. He grabbed the screw's other wrist and squeezed.

"Do what you like to me. There's nothing more you screws can take from me. I have nothing to lose—so when I tell you I'll kill you for harming Clara Oswald or any of her friends, know I mean it."

The screw didn't struggle against their holds, but her face compressed with hatred.

"RY2227, you're already without canteen for two months for your physical strikes against a guard earlier. You're just making things worse for yourself."

She knew she'd regret it later, but at that time, she wanted to say _fuck you_ in every way there was.

"It's like the Doctor said. I have nothing to lose. So don't you dare underestimate me. There are loads of graves filled with people who learned that lesson the hard way."

The screw snorted.

"Oh, love. Is that supposed to frighten me?" She asked. "I've been in charge of the Doctor's cell for five years now. You think _your _body count is impressive? Eleven is nothing. Eleven's a bad day. If the man who's body count includes a prime minister doesn't frighten me, what makes you think you will?" She jerked her arms roughly. Clara and the Doctor's hands slipped. "You're a joke with a pretty face."

Clara had just enough time to look up at the Doctor in surprise before the other screws arrived and removed her from the room.


	8. Walls

One of the first lessons Clara learned about making threats was that you had to deliver.

Danny saw within her more potential than Clara had ever assumed was inside of herself, and because of that, he became her mentor as she quickly slid up the ranks. She was the first woman to be wing commander since the merge and it would've been easy for those underneath her to undermine her authority. There were plenty with the narrow-minded capability. But she'd started her first day with the promise that she'd demote anyone who refused to follow her orders; three squadron leaders down and she finally had complete compliance. It wouldn't have worked if she hadn't followed through. They would've cracked her spine as they walked all over her.

Unfortunately for Clara, every screw here was well learned in that lesson as well.

They did not bring her a dry uniform. They did not bring her a towel. Clara sat in the slightly-roomier upstairs cell that smelled of mold and shivered so hard it made her muscles ache. After an hour, she realized they were honestly leaving her that way. She stripped her wet clothes off and seethed. She spread them out atop the sink and the toilet and curled up on the thin mattress, shivering underneath the threadbare blanket. She was so thankful for it that she kept her fists wrapped around it all night long, like a child grips onto a favorite teddy bear. She missed her books. She twisted John's wristwatch around and around her wrist and ached.

Being cold didn't seem like such a hard thing theoretically, but in practice, it had the power to suck so much from someone. Clara felt she could've been at least somewhat okay if she could just warm up, but the cell stayed a constant, freezing temperature. The thick cotton of her uniform resisted drying. And that thin blanket—as miraculous as it was—couldn't retain the body heat she didn't even have. She shivered all night long and desperately wished for sleep, but it never came.

Something else did, though.

"It's fucking _cold_."

Clara sat straight up without a moment's hesitation. Her eyes flittered quickly around the cell. It was late, and she was generously irrational from all the time spent alone, but she hadn't yet started hearing voices. She turned slowly and swung her feet over onto the cold floor. She hesitated.

"Doctor?"

She felt foolish. She lifted the blanket and wrapped it around her bare shoulders, ears twitching from the weight of the complete silence. Her eardrums strained painfully when something broke that silence.

"I mean, I can see my breath," he continued.

Clara felt her shoulders lower with something that felt akin to deep, consuming relief. She resisted the smile that threatened to take over her expression.

"Where are you?" She demanded. She rose to her feet and wrapped the blanket around her. She padded across the dirty linoleum floor and stopped in front of the white door just behind the sink. A thrill of excitement ran through her. "Doctor, are you in the cell connected to mine?"

"Well, technically, yes. But I'm afraid there's no way this door will open. I've been pulling at the nails all night. It's no use. Plus, there's a sink installed right in front of it on my side."

Just the sound of his accent had her beaming.

"That's fine!" She said quickly. "That's_ totally_ fine! Because I can _hear _you!" She exclaimed. Her mind raced. "We have to make them keep us up here. I can't go back down there. I can't make it three more weeks listening to myself talk."

She heard the muffled scratching sound that she'd previously assumed to be mice. She guessed it was him pulling at the nails.

"I heart two screws talking about two hours ago," he began. His voice was huffy. He sounded out of breath. "They're going to have to completely redo the pipes. It's going to take weeks. The basement's going to have to be gutted. I think they're going to have to either leave us here, or let us out of solitary early."

Clara edged closer. She stood in front of the sink and leaned up on her tip toes. She could just barely press the top of her ear against the door. The sink dug painfully into her gut. Sure enough, she could hear the sound of the Doctor pulling at something from the other side.

"I hope you're right." Clara muttered. Her attention strayed elsewhere. "Did they bring you a dry uniform?"

"That's the—thing," he grunted and the door shook, like he'd lost his grip on something he was yanking and slammed forward. "I was trying to give you my dry one, because I knew they wouldn't give you one, but it's frustratingly difficult to pry nails out of wood when you've only got one hand."

The surge of affection was stunted by her curiosity.

"Only one hand? What the bloody hell happened to your other one?" She demanded.

"Nails bite back, apparently." Was his flat reply.

"Doctor!" The reprimand was automatic, like a cross wife who'd dealt with just a bit too many eccentricities from her husband in a twenty-four hour span. "Are you bleeding?"

"Not so much."

"But you are some?"

"The throbbing stopped."

"Throbbing?!"

"It's fine."

"Look," she began tersely. "You can't get yourself injured, because we're the only people in this entire sodding prison stupid enough to plan a half-hearted escape just to get medical attention. Who would do that for us except each other? And I'm locked up here too, in case you've forgotten."

"I haven't."

"Good. Now leave the door alone. My uniform is drying. Everything is fine." She ordered.

"Is it?" He challenged.

Clara's expression twisted.

"Fine as it could be, I mean. Or, well. Fine as—okay, so things aren't really fine at all, but we don't need them getting any worse with you getting caught, or having to get your hand amputated, or any of those."

"I suppose that's true." He relented.

Clara turned and glanced over at the iron bed.

"I'm going to pull my bed over to this wall. So we can chat. Unless you're tired?"

"I don't really sleep much." He assured her.

She pushed the flimsy bed over to the other side of the cell easily. She sat down atop it and buried into the plastic feeling sheet, searching for warmth. She at least felt more at ease now that she knew she wasn't entirely alone.

"I've been wondering something," she began hesitantly. It was easier to ask things like this when she couldn't see his face, but it was still nerve-wracking. And it wasn't even the scariest question she wanted to ask. She wanted to know about what the screw had said (about him murdering a Prime Minister), but she had to work her way up to that.

"And what is that?"

He sounded closer, too, like he'd moved his bed as well. Clara leaned back against the wall and folded her arms over her chest. She stared uneasily around the room.

"Why me?"

There was poorly restrained bitter humor in his tone.

"Because you manipulated multiple soldiers into shooting their superior officers?"

Clara felt the back of her neck tickle uneasily, like it always did when she was faced with what she'd done.

"No, not that. I mean…why me…for you? There's hundreds of people here. Why do you only talk to me? What is it about _me _in particular? Is it just what I've done?"

"It's impressive, of course, but no. That's not why."

She could hear the way his lips were curled. She shifted, confused.

"Then why?"

She listened to his bed smack against the wall as he shifted.

"Because I like you." He answered, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "I like to look at you. I like to talk to you. I like to touch you."

She resisted the smile that wanted to crop up onto her face. She pulled absentmindedly at a loose thread on the blanket, her eyes dropping to her knees.

"But _why_?" She pressed. "If you're physically attracted to me, then sure, some of that makes sense—"

He snorted.

"_If _I'm physically attracted to you?"

She ignored him.

"But why do you like to talk to me? I'm not that interesting. I'm really not." She argued firmly.

She worried he wouldn't reply. Or that he'd get annoyed. Or that he'd change the subject. But after a brief silence, he offered up his words.

"Because I already knew you. All these people…they're strangers. And I don't trust them. And they don't trust me. I'm not looking for a new companion. When you've been alone for as long as I have, one is enough— if that one will have me."

Clara pulled her knees up. She smoothed the blanket over her calves as she processed his admission.

"But…you didn't know me. We'd never met," she reminded him. He was the one who'd said something wrong, and yet she felt foolish, like she'd made the ridiculous comment.

"You'd never met me." He corrected.

"No," she countered impatiently. "_You'd _never met _me_."

"Not face-to-face."

"Not…voice-to-voice! Not in any way!"

"You're forgetting the power of stories, Clara. And that's a troubling thing for a woman with a literature degree to forget."

His voice was light, calm. Clara felt on the receiving end of some sort of joke.

"Either get to the point or…" she stopped.

"Or?"

"Or I'll make you."

"And how are you going to do that?"

"Don't rush me." She snapped darkly.

Silence fell over the room. She feared he wouldn't respond.

"When I said John and I used to write, I didn't really mean we wrote about our organization. We had radios for that. We wrote because we were friends, and it was as simple and complicated as that. He told me all about you. He loved to talk about you—you were his favorite person in the entire world. So I learned all this stuff about you before, so much that I feel I was the one who knew you. But you still don't really know me."

All at once, his desire to touch her, to spend time with her, made more sense. Were she not a firm believer in the power of words, she might've dismissed it. Might've said you can't learn a thing about someone through stories of them. But how many times had she fallen in love for a day with a character from a book? To him, she was someone he knew well. To her, he was a complete stranger. Nothing could make someone crave for closeness more.

"Oh."

It was a lame, unsure response. He was waiting for more.

"But I'm not a story." She finally admitted. "I'm real and I've got all the annoyances that come with being a real person. It's like I told you before. I don't want you expecting something from me that I can't give."

"I know. It's not the idea of you I love. And I'm not trying to trick or trap you. I have been very straightforward about what I want, Clara. I want to be with you however you'll allow it."

"That's it?" She asked hesitantly. "Honestly, truly. That's it? Because if you're expecting some…artfully dangerous army girl, with the natural ability to rouse hundreds against their respective leaders—you're going to be disappointed. I hate this prison, too, but I'm not a natural born rebel. It happened once and it just…happened. I don't even remember much. I was upset. I was…not myself."

"I think you were probably more yourself in that moment than you've ever been. And I think that's part of the reason you've been so traumatized by it all." He shot back. His tone turned breezy. "But you needn't worry, of course. The parts of you that you think are most unlovable are usually the most cherished of all."

Clara thought back to those polarizing moments when those parts of herself rose. The moments when sweet, little Clara bowed out. She wondered when she'd fashioned herself into a secret weapon. She supposed it likely happened after her mother died.

"Hmm," she murmured. She lowered her knees and crossed her legs instead. She rested her hands in the dip of the fabric. "I think you're probably very good at getting women into bed."

She could hear the upward curves of his lips when he spoke.

"Yeah?" He laughed shortly after that. "It probably wouldn't surprise you to hear I'm very picky and therefore don't _attempt _to get many women into bed. Never did."

Going by the fact he only even _talked _to Clara, she didn't feel very surprised by that.

"High standards?"

"The highest." He affirmed.

Clara thought about the warmth of his breath on her ear. The rough texture of his palm on her navel. She licked her lips and worked to keep her voice unaffected.

"I'm glad to have met them, then."

His responding chuckle was lovely and dark. Clara smiled softly. She looked down and picked at her cuticles as she mulled over her next question. She knew asking it would change the tone of the conversation, but she wasn't sure she could handle _not _asking. She swallowed against the choking anxiety that was quick to surge within her.

"I want to know why you're here." She said.

She'd thought his anger would be the worst punishment for her curiosity. She was wrong. It was his silence that was the worst.

She waited for a minute, then two, then three. She could feel her heart hammering with anxiety.

"Okay," she broke the silence. Her voice cracked uneasily. "Say something. Please."

She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them to her. She wanted to go back in time and devour her own words.

"There's a lot to it." He finally said. His voice was wary.

Clara let out a quiet sigh. Her eyelids fluttered shut with relief.

"Well, I might have to reschedule some appointments, but I think we can probably fit it in." She responded quickly. She wanted to keep the pace of the conversation going. She wanted to know his stories, too.

His responding chuckle was short, but it made her smile anyway. She rubbed her palms up and down her bare calves nervously as she waited.

"I don't come out very heroic in this story." He admitted. She could hear a bit of nervousness in his tone. It made her wonder if he thought her judgmental.

"Luckily we're both the villains. No need for heroes here." Clara commented airily. She decided to give him a gentle push in the right direction. "She said something about a Prime Minister."

"Yes. The causalities began there." He agreed, a bit reluctantly. Clara felt an unexpected thrill of excitement race down her spine. She was the first person to hear his story in the twenty years he'd been here. She would be the first person to hear it from his own lips. The thought shouldn't have been arousing, but it was. "I'm not sure where to start."

"The beginning. We have all the time in the world." Clara reminded him. But because she could still sense his reluctance, she took a step back. "You don't have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable. I know it's difficult to talk about things you've buried."

She'd buried a lot of things. First, her mum. Then she buried her in her mind, too. She didn't talk about her for a very long time. She kept her tucked away, secret, hoarded. She felt she was protecting her memory by doing so. She felt she was protecting herself, too. But by refusing to talk about her, or her death, or the abrupt terror of it all, she gave it the power to control her. She let it quietly torment her for years. Learning to open up was the hardest thing. It still was.

It was his silence that forced her hand.

"When my mum was…when she died, I didn't—couldn't—" Clara stopped. She exhaled. "Wouldn't. I wouldn't talk about her. For a really long time. I saw a counsellor who insisted I was doing it because it hurt to remember her. She had no idea what was going on in my head. The truth was that I wouldn't talk about her because I didn't think anyone deserved to hear it. I was angry at everybody back then. I felt no one had the right to hear about my mum, or my grief. I thought they only wanted to hear me talk about it because they were interested in the grizzly details of it all, like people who stop and watch motorway accidents…" Clara trailed off. She licked her lips and looked down at the tops of her knees. "It was so much uglier and…way more selfish than people wanted to believe. They painted this poetic picture of my grief and my silence. When the truth was that I couldn't stand the lot of them. I didn't open up, because I knew they didn't care. And my mum didn't deserve to live in their minds or their memories. I didn't want to be their freakshow. I didn't want to be the shocking, brutal news story told over the dinner table. I didn't want my life and my tragedy to be their entertaining spectacle. It was as cold and as simple as that."

His voice sounded thicker when he spoke.

"Giving people your stories means giving them power."

Clara's heart jolted. She swallowed roughly.

"Yeah." She agreed. "Exactly. Being silent is keeping control." She hesitated. "Was it…like that for you? Did you keep yourself a mystery to keep some control?"

He hummed noncommittally at first. She thought she wouldn't get much else.

"It started as a way to protect myself here." He finally admitted. "I was a scrawy young man. My appearance gave little to intimidation. I made people wonder to keep them away. And then…time went on. And on. And I gained a sort of…tenure. No one bothered me. No one would dare to. I could've made friends…could've opened up about it all. But I didn't like any of them. They were all so dull and repetitive and selfish. They didn't have any fire to them. I didn't feel like they were real."

It was amazing to her that he felt like _she _was real. She didn't even feel real to herself sometimes.

"I can understand that." She murmured.

A heavy silence fell over them. Clara wished he'd keep talking. She wanted to know so badly it made her skin itch, but she couldn't force him.

"How did your mother die?" He asked. She felt her heart plummet.

"She—died," she stuttered automatically. She felt her anger stir. She wouldn't give him every piece of her when he'd yet to give her anything of his. "How did you end up here?"

"A lot of people died." He said right back.

So that was that. She couldn't help but feel disappointed and incomplete.

"Right." She muttered. She rose from the bed and wandered over to where she'd laid her uniform out. She felt exposed and wanted it back on, but when she grasped the material, it was still heavy and damp. She shut her eyes tightly.

"It's not that I wanted to be this."

She turned, her fist still wrapped around the damp cotton. She stared at the door behind the sink. Tried to imagine the expression such a forlorn tone might come from. She had never seen him wear one like it.

"Like what?" She finally asked tentatively. She dropped her regulation shirt and padded quietly over to the bed. The springs groaned as she sank back down.

"I never wanted to hurt anyone at first. I think we all must start out like that." He commented. His tone was brusque. Whatever she'd gotten a glimpse of before, it was over now.

"I like to think so, yes." She agreed hesitantly. Though she knew there were evil people out there who probably started out wanting to cause harm.

He was quiet. She wished—more than anything—that she could see his face. It was difficult to have conversations through a wall.

"It wasn't really the exact start. The things I did…they spanned over a period of eight years. It started with the Prime Minister. Can't say it stopped there, though." He began. Clara leaned back against the wall, like being closer might help her understand. His voice took on an unsteady quality she didn't expect. "So even though it wasn't the first and only start, the beginning to all of it was with my—" he stopped abruptly. Clara turned so she was fully facing the wall, staring hard at the place he must've been on the other side. Waiting. "I had a daughter," he paused, hesitated. He spoke her name carefully and gently. The heaviness to his words made Clara certain he hasn't said her name in decades. "Susan. That's what we named her."

It wasn't near what she was expecting. Clara sat up straighter. She felt her eyebrows rise in surprise. Her mind immediately flew to the implications of this—that he had a daughter, that maybe she visited him, that he wasn't as alone as she might've thought…and then her mind snagged on the word _had_.

"Oh." She commented softly. And then she wasn't sure what to say.

"She was born early. Way too early. Her lungs and her brain were underdeveloped. She couldn't breathe on her own. They told us she would never walk. Probably never talk." His voice had taken a detached, clinical tone. Like he was explaining a patient's prognosis to a fellow doctor. Clara's stomach was churning. "Everything that I did...I did it for her."

Clara felt her throat tighten. For a moment, she was back with her barrister. The words _please, I was just trying to save him _were caked on her lips like dried blood. She looked down at her lap and took a deep, shaking breath.

She didn't know what to say. She didn't know where to start. Thankfully, he continued.

"There were things going on that you wouldn't believe." His tone sounded almost pleading for a moment, like he was begging for her faith. "I joined the Time Lords to stop it. But…in the end, there weren't many good options for us. The things we could do wouldn't be enough. The things that would help were so dangerous and extreme that no one but me was willing to even entertain the idea, even in our group of rebels." His words broke off with a sudden cough. Clara listened, wondering if the stench of mold was as bad in his cell as hers. "I chose what I felt was the lesser of two evils. And then I lost Susan—" he stopped and then his words stuttered as he quickly continued, like he wanted to hide the fact it hurt to talk about it. "A-And then I continued cleaning up the mess. I'd still be out there doing it if I hadn't been caught. God knows nobody else will do it."

Slowly, it began to make sense to Clara. The pieces slotted together and she could understand. He wasn't vying for a rebellion in the prison to make things better. He wasn't vying for a rebellion to escape to be free. He was vying for a rebellion because he had unfinished business.

"I thought that John…" he trailed off, his tone growing apologetic. Clara swallowed roughly and resisted the urge to cover her ears. She knew what was coming. "I planned on him taking over. I can only do so much from here."

"I'm sorry." She murmured, automatically, her voice pained.

"No—" he stopped. His voice was softer as he continued. "No, it's not your fault. I didn't mean that."

She nodded down at her lap, even though he couldn't see her. (And in her mind, the words began spitting. _You didn't do enough, you didn't save him, if you'd protected him like you always said you would then—_)

"You said he chose me as his successor," she blurted. It was the first thing to crawl to the front of her mind. It was the first thing she could think of to say, and she needed to say something, because she needed her mind to stop.

"Yes. He and I decided you were the best person for it." The Doctor affirmed. He barked out a short laugh. "Only…now you're in here, too. Both my backups were lost. Goes to show."

She was still shaken and weak. Half her mind was trying to fight off the sweeping wave of depression the thought of John's death brought forth.

"Maybe we were meant to work together." She commented. "What were the odds of me ending up here, with you? And it happened. So perhaps..."

She trailed off. The words suddenly felt cheesy and inappropriate.

"I don't know. I just mean that maybe we'd make a good team."

She wasn't sure, but she thought she might've heard a smile in his voice when he responded.

"Maybe we would." He agreed.

She could feel her muscles relaxing slowly, bit by bit. She leaned back against the wall and uncurled her fingers from around her blankets. The tension was leaking from her slowly. She wanted to ask so many more things, but she didn't want to push him too far. She decided to go as far as she felt she could and to be glad with where the conversation ended up.

"Did you have a backup? I mean…before you were here. Besides John?" She wondered.

She listened to the muffled footsteps above her head as she waited. She didn't feel as nervous as she had at the start of the conversation.

"Yes. Missy. Susan's mother." He answered.

Clara dutifully ignored the strange tumbling of her heart. She let it sit in her toes and did not prod her mind. She didn't want to know why those words caused it.

"Did she—"

She didn't even have to stumble for a gentler word than _die._ He interrupted her.

"No. She betrayed me. She broke my heart and she was glad to have done it." She heard him softly clear his throat. "The best thing about prison is that she's not here."

The coldness of it made Clara shiver. For once, she didn't feel guilty or anguished when she thought of Danny. She felt lucky to have someone so loyal on her side.

"Clara?" He asked.

She sat up straighter.

"Hmm?"

"How did your mother die?"

Clara pursed her lips tightly. She worked the material of the blanket between her fingers nervously. And for the first time since the tearful day she'd told John and Danny, she spoke of it.

"By protecting me."

It was in her blood to protect those she loved at all costs, even if that cost was ultimately her life.

The horrible truth was that it didn't stop there. She was capable of much more. It was in Clara's blood to protect those she loved even at the expense of other people's lives.

In the end, subconsciously, she must've felt she had the right to be god, even if only for a day (or a bloodsoaked hour). Her loyalty was her betrayal. And she didn't have to know the full story to know she didn't blame the Doctor for whatever he'd done. Who was she to blame him? She'd used human beings as weapons to save the life of one man.

Not for the first time, she wondered (and feared) just how far she was capable of going.


	9. Impressions

_She was sitting on a bloody, tiled floor in Suffolk. Sobs were gushing from her quicker than the blood was. _

"_Oswald! One minute!" _

_One minute. Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight—she set her palms on the slick floor. Fifty-seven, fifty-six, fifty-five—she braced her weight against them and made to stand, but the motion made the skin on her knees pull apart farther. She felt beads of blood skating down her muddy calves, and the time kept passing. Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight— she fell back hard on her bottom as the pain in her legs grew unbearable. _

"_Fuck," she hissed. She breathed hard through her mouth and cupped her dirty palms over her knees. She pressed down hard, gasping around the pain that caused. She had to make the bleeding stop. It was only her tenth week of Initial and Specialist Training. She had twenty-two more to go. She couldn't fall apart, not now, not here. Not this way. _

_She choked back a sob as she lowered her hands. She set them on the floor behind her and breathed hard through her mouth, trying to counteract the nausea rising within her. She was in so much pain that she was certain she was close to vomiting. She slowly—and shakily—rose to her feet. She stayed stooped over, with her knees bent, afraid to fully straighten them. She had shredded the skin. She couldn't even see any certain slice; her knees were a mess of torn flesh, blood, and a whiteness she feared was bone. They were so dismantled she wasn't even sure if sutures could mend it. There didn't seem to be enough in-place skin to sew back together. And she was an idiot for the way it'd happened. _

"_Time's up! Out. Now." Her trainer barked. _

_Her vision swam as she took a jerky step forward. She let out an involuntary cry as the skin ripped further. _

"Fuck_," she hissed under her breath. She gasped shallow breaths through her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut. _Fuck_. _

_And then she heard a vaguely familiar voice from outside the door. _

"_Give her a moment. She fell down on the—"_

_The trainer cut him off. _

"_Get back in line, Smith. You're out of bounds." He bit. _

_Smith. Clara was able to place him after a moment. He was the new one who'd just joined the program two weeks prior. He had a funny chin. She'd never spoken to him, but he had caused quite a ruckus on his first day when he refused to take off his bulky wristwatch. It had been his granddad's, he'd said, and Clara remembered he had his hand locked over it as he did. She recalled feeling an odd mixture of affection and pity for him. _

"_But she was bleeding," she heard him say, and she was surprised at how _pleading _he sounded. Like her wellbeing genuinely mattered to him. _

"_Get _back in line_!" The trainer shrieked. Clara flinched. She gritted her teeth and tried for the door again, not wanting him to get in trouble on her behalf, but it was too late. She looked at the red streaks on the floor and realized it was too deep for her to ignore or patch up herself. She was going to need to see the doctor. She felt tears burn hotly in her eyes. She'd be sent home over this. She'd have to restart the entire program. That was ten weeks for nothing. She'd been a fool for thinking she could do this. She should've known she'd never make it through the bombing course. She still couldn't even light a candle without her hands shaking. _

_She was preparing herself for the fallout as she limped towards the door, but it opened before she could even touch the handle. She looked up in surprise. It was a young, handsome man. He couldn't have been older than Clara, but she knew from his uniform that he was a group captain. She braced herself for conflict. She squared her shoulders and averted her eyes. But what happened was not what she was prepared for. _

"_Oh, no," he whispered, horrified. Softly. Clara had been braced for yelling. She glanced up at him hesitantly and watched in disbelief as he lowered down. He kneeled so he was eyelevel with her knees. Clara stared at his dark fingers as they lightly fluttered just over her wounds, never touching, but obviously wanting to. "What's happened?" _

_Her mouth was dry and her words were thick. _

"_I—it happened during the exercise. I fell onto the fencing." She stuttered. What she hoped he thought was that she was clumsy and incapable. It was better than him knowing the sight of the roaring flames had knocked the breath from her frame. She was trying so hard to not be that person any longer. _

_He looked up at her from his lowered position. His eyes were wide and aching. _

"_This is very bad. You'll be dismissed if they see this." He shared gently. Clara noticed he'd lowered his voice to a whisper. _

_She shut her eyes. She pursed her shaking lips. _

"_Christ," she murmured. She felt shame settling in her bones. "God dammit." _

_He rose to his feet. He peered at her sadly. _

"_Come on. I'll help you to the infirmary." He offered. He extended a strong hand. _

_Clara stared. She could feel her heart pounding away in her ears. _

"_I can't," she realized. She looked from his hand to his eyes. He grew hazy as tears swelled in her eyes. "I can't go home. Please. It was such a stupid mistake. I'm better than this, honest. I can do so much better. I just need the chance. I can't lose this chance." _

I can't lose anything else to fire_, she wanted to weep. But he wouldn't understand. _

_He examined her face. She looked down and away as the tears capsized. And then she heard something she never would've expected. _

"_Are you wearing anything underneath your clothing?" _

_Her spine straightened, affronted. He was quick to continue. She watched in something close to fascination as he flushed. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. _

"_I-I mean, not like—I'm not trying to—" he broke off, flustered. It took him a moment to regain composure. "I need some fabric to wrap around your knees. If we can get the bleeding controlled just long enough to get you to my office, I might be able to help you. Without anyone knowing." _

_Clara's heart rose dangerously. _

"_You mean—I wouldn't have to go home?" _

_He looked back down at her knees. _

"_I can't promise that, but that's certainly what I'm hoping for." _

_That morning, she never would've guessed she'd be removing her camisole in a bloody bathroom with a commander. She never would've guessed she'd be looking down at the top of his head as he carefully ripped the fabric in half and tied them tightly around her pulsating wounds. But then again, there were a lot of things in her life lately that she never would've foreseen. _

_She listened as he spoke to her trainer and made up an excuse for her to come back with him. She zoned in on the warmth of his broad arm around her waist as he helped her limp painstakingly to his office. He helped her up onto his desk without a moment's hesitation. She cleared her throat and looked politely at the ceiling as he rolled her trouser legs up to her thighs. His touch was soft against the tender flesh above her wound. _

"_Wow," he murmured. He winced. "You did a number on yourself. What's your name?"_

_She bit down on her bottom lip as he flushed her right knee with antiseptic. _

"_Clara Oswald." _

_He set the bottle down. He reached for the first aid container and rummaged through it as he spoke. _

"_Clara. I'm Group Captain Danny Pink." He introduced. He turned back towards her once he'd located the cloth he'd been searching for. Clara hissed in pain as he pressed it firmly to her knee. _

"_Nice name." She managed through gritted teeth. She exhaled slowly as he moved on to her left. "How did you know I was in there?" _

"_Your friend Smith found me. Said you were hurt." He shared. He moved a clean cloth to her left knee after flushing the wound. Clara grabbed onto the edge of his desk. "He seems to really care about you." _

_She could only briefly register her confusion. _

"_He's not my friend," she admitted. "I don't even know him." _

_When she looked at Danny, he appeared surprised. _

"_Oh? He seemed very concerned about you. Though he is quite the bleeding heart. Hopeless, too. He's been sent to see me three times already. Never a good sign." He set the soiled cloth to the side. Clara cringed back when he lifted an aerosol bottle. _

"_What's that?" She asked warily. _

_He grimaced. "Intense spray plaster. It's going to hurt like hell. But it's your only chance." _

_Clara eyed it guardedly for a moment longer, and then she nodded. _

"_Okay then. Do it." _

_He stared at her. "You're sure?" _

"_Absolutely." _

_It was later, after quite a few muffled screams and curses, that he thought to ask. _

"_How did you manage to fall onto that fencing?" He wanted to know. He extended his hand for her for the second time that day. Clara settled her hand in his immediately. He helped her from his desk slowly and motioned for her to take a few experimental steps around his office. They had to make sure her wound stayed sealed. _

"_Dunno." She lied. She looked up from her knees and locked eyes with him. Her face opened with a wide, relieved grin. "It's not opening!" _

_He beamed back. _

"_You'll need to come by at least twice a day to let me check it from this point on." He told her. "As long as we keep it sealed and healing, you should be all right. You'll have to thank Smith. He was kind to have found me." _

_Clara felt a surge of affection. She swallowed her large heart and smiled tentatively at Danny. _

"_And you were kind to have helped me." She said. She felt all the loneliness from the past few years swell inside of her chest. It was a heavy, empty feeling. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate it." _

_He smiled kindly. _

"_Well," he began. "I know goodness when I see it. It's not something you let slip away." _

_For the first time in a long while, Clara felt protected. She felt safe. She knew then that she would do anything to continue feeling that way. _

_Because down at the root of it all, safety was just another manifestation of control._

* * *

><p>She had frantic, twisted dreams that night.<p>

In the beginning, it was the same as it always was. She saw two sets of flames and lost someone she loved in both. She screamed until her throat ached. She woke up for brief moments of time, her heart racing and her stomach churning, with no thought but how much she missed and needed Danny.

But there was a strange deviation this time: there was an addition to the cast. She told herself it was because she'd fallen asleep talking to him (it must have been); that's why the Doctor had a starring role in her jumbled up nightmare-dreams. It didn't mean anything, it was just that he'd been on her mind. And she could've believed that completely…if it wasn't for the precision of the dream.

In them, he was hot and swollen. He consumed her.

She writhed, gasped, moaned. He was buried deep inside of her and the room around them was burning. She could feel the blinding heat from the flames, and she felt deep terror and panic, and she kept thinking that she needed to run—but his body was moving into hers with such delicious precision that she was tipping her head back towards the flames, oblivious in moments to how close her hair was to catching fire, obscenely loud moans spilling from her lips.

It was a disturbing tangle of arousal and horror. She dug her nails into his skin and pleaded for him to keep going, to not stop, because she was so close, so close, so close—

So close to catching flame. She felt the explosion of pleasure as she came in the dream. And terribly, it woke her mid-cry.

The plastic material of the bedsheet was slick with sweat. She blinked up at the dark ceiling and panted, sucking in shallow gasps of moldy air. She reached up and pressed her hands to her flushed face, equal parts terrified and aroused. Even her erotic dreams were nightmares.

"God," she murmured underneath her breath. She sat up shakily and reached up, pushing her sweaty hair back. "Christ."

Her legs felt weak as she crossed over to the sink. She turned the leaking faucet on and listened to the grinding of the pipes, waiting for the gush of cold water. When it finally arrived, she cupped her hands underneath it and splashed the water onto her face. She gripped the sides of the sink and bowed her head as she tried to calm her breathing.

"You alright?"

She winced in chagrin. She had hoped terribly that he was asleep. For the first time, she was certain the adjoining cells were a curse and not a blessing.

"Yeah. Sort of." She croaked. She leaned down and drank from the faucet. She'd woken up with a raw throat, though she wasn't sure if it was from dehydration, screaming, or the mold. It was likely a combination.

"That was either a really horrifying dream or a really good one." She could hear the smirk in his voice. She wasn't in the mood.

"Shut up." She snapped. She padded back over to her bed. It didn't even take her the entire trip before she regretted her words. "Sorry. I just feel ill."

His tone was reserved, curt. She didn't hear any exhaustion at all.

"Right. I won't bother you. Sleep well."

She could hear his bed springs creaking as he presumably settled back down. Clara had thought that was what she wanted. Until that's what she had.

"Wait—I mean—well," she stopped. "Are you tired?"

"Not really. I catnap." He commented drily. Clara wasn't certain he was serious, but she decided to go with it.

"Oh. That doesn't sound very healthy." Her tone was trying too hard for conversational. She ended up sounding a bit desperate.

"Eh, probably not." He dismissed. "Do you want to talk about your dream?"

"No." Clara said quickly. Her mind focused on the first part mostly. Talking about her nightmares never helped anything.

"Okay." He said.

She bowed her head and pressed her forehead against her palm. She fought against images that wanted to resurface. After pushing away a lot of images from the first part of her dreams, she settled by letting latter images through. The sensation of him buried inside of her still felt so _real _that it made her shiver. She felt her thighs clench automatically. The cool air chilled her naked skin that was quickly growing damp, and not for the first time, she thought about it. Her fingers inched to her stomach. She set her palm over her bellybutton and realized she could very easily come right now. She could've thought about the forceful strokes of his cock and brought herself there in a matter of moments. But that would require silence, and he thought they were still talking.

"Did you hear the commotion upstairs earlier?" He wondered.

Clara swallowed hard. She tried to ignore the growing throbbing between her legs.

"No," she muttered distractedly, without even thinking. She had heard it. It'd sounded like someone dropping metal weights onto the floor above them. Probably a fight. "What was it?"

_Don't think about it_, she scolded herself. She screwed her eyes shut. She squirmed. In her mind, she could hear him panting in her ear. He had gone so deeply in her, had hit so many places she'd never—

"A fight would be my guess. I'm surprised you slept through it." He commented lightly.

Her fingers were traitors. Her mind was weak. How long had it been? She couldn't remember. Her mind was tangled. She stroked over herself once. It sent waves of pleasure down her spine, her legs, to her toes. She shut her eyes and stopped.

"Me too." She commented absentmindedly. She slowly lowered back onto her back, her knees falling open. _God, _she thought. _Why am I doing this_?

She rubbed slow, gentle circles over herself. She was so focused on replaying the memories of her dream that she forgot herself. It only took one breathy gasp.

"Clara."

She was too far gone. She didn't care anymore.

"Doctor?" She inquired, her voice a pitch too high.

She could hear the wry smile. "What are you doing?"

_Thinking about your cock_—"I'm…uh…thinking, and…" _Oh, sod it. Maybe I'll at least be able to get back to sleep afterwards. _"Getting myself off."

He hummed thoughtfully. Clara didn't have to try very hard to ignore him. She was getting close in no time at all, her body burning and throbbing and so acutely _needy_ that she didn't even know if this would be enough. It was still a better outcome than sobbing herself back to sleep (which was what her nightmares caused), but she could already feel frustration blooming.

"Must've been a good dream then." He commented. And then, lightly, casually: "Stop."

Her breaths were coming quickly. Her hand stopped automatically, more out of surprise then compliance. She relaxed back against the pillows, intent on demanding answers for his sudden command. But she didn't have to wonder much longer.

"What are you thinking about?" He wanted to know. His voice was deep, velvety. It sent another throb down her core. She could've ignored him and finished it—but she was suddenly wondering if there was something better to get out of this.

"You." She admitted. She let her eyes close as the images returned. "In my dream, you fucked me and it was fabulous."

Short and to the point. No need to mention the rest. No need to add that even her subconscious pleasure had torment weaved in.

"Why was it fabulous?" His voice was carefully measured, but she could hear a tightening beginning between his syllables. The thought that maybe he had his hand down his trousers made not touching herself even more unbearable.

"Because—because it was hard, and deep, and your cock felt so—" she stopped, her words getting too crude too quickly. Her next words were blunt. "I wish it was real."

The thread of frustration was pulled tight around his next sentence. Some words bunched together tightly, crowded and snug, while others had too long of a gap between them.

"I want you to touch yourself again. But slowly, so you last. So you can listen to me."

She felt chills overtake her for a moment. She inched her hand back down and wondered how that could be the most erotic thing she'd ever heard. There'd been other words, other situations, other times that must've been more erotic objectively. But to her, in that moment—nothing had ever set her so alight.

"Are you?"

Her eyes fluttered shut at the first careful, slow stroke. She resisted the urge to moan.

"Yes."

"Good." He commented. "Now. I want you to move your other hand to your breast. Let's say…the right one." Her hand followed the path he would've taken easily. "If I were there, I would rub your nipple between my thumb and forefinger."

She nearly didn't do it, because John had fondled roughly before and it'd done next to nothing for her, but she was desperate for more pleasure. She cupped underneath her breast and experimentally did as he'd suggested. The responding pulsation of pleasure down her body made her gasp softly.

"Oh," she allowed, without even meaning to.

His voice was more aroused after that.

"I would rub harder after that, hard enough to make my wrist cramp. I'd keep my other hand at your breast, even though you would probably want those fingers elsewhere."

And she did. She wanted to fuck herself terribly, because it all felt good but not good enough, but she was intent on letting him fuck her with words.

She did as suggested and increased the pace, but it was too much too quickly. She cried out and stopped. She let her hand on her breast lower to her ribs.

"Too much," she breathed. "Oh, God,"

The moan was breezy and did something to the Doctor. When he spoke, he sounded more lust-ridden than she'd ever heard.

"I would keep at it. What would happen if I did?"

She swallowed hard. Her fingers moved back of their own accord.

"I would come." She admitted. "Too quickly."

"So you'd be wet and swollen when we fucked. Don't see the problem with that. I would make you come again."

He sounded a bit out of breath. She hoped he was touching himself. Just the thought made her lose even more control.

"Okay." She allowed, though in her lust she wasn't really even sure what she was saying. She just knew she needed to feel as good as she had before. She picked up where she'd left off. It didn't take long for a gasp to spill from her lips.

"That's good, perfect," he hummed. "You sound as beautiful as you look. As you taste."

She sped up of her own accord, further aroused by his words. She could feel herself getting closer. She hardly registered the slight whine of the bed springs. She let herself moan audibly between gasps.

"Oh, God, Christ, Fuck," she panted. "Doctor."

"Yes?"

But whatever she'd been about to say, it was lost to her. Her hips thrust up towards her hand. Her back was arching. She wanted to hold it off, wanted to draw it out further—and then she heard a groan from the other side of the wall. Her hips lifted from the bed as her back arched, her pelvic muscles grew painfully tight, and she was there. She cried out loudly, embarrassingly, her muscles clenching as she came hard and wonderfully. She didn't let her hand fall away from her body until she was a shaking heap.

"Oh my god," she gasped out. She could hear her heartbeat racing madly. The throbbing was beginning to pander off perfectly. And her wits were returning to her. Oh.

The wall was back again. She had felt so close to him during it, so _involved_, that it was almost depressing to look towards his voice and see that same wall, sink, and door. So depressing to regain her sense and remember how alone she was.

She wasn't sure what to say. She hoped she hadn't just ruined things between them somehow.

"How do you feel?" He asked. He sounded a bit out of breath. She hoped he'd come, too.

"Sleepy." She admitted. "Really good."

"I'm glad." She could hear the smile in his voice. "I'll let you go back to sleep. Goodnight, Clara."

She wanted to cross over and see if her clothing was finally dry, but her legs were gelatin. She turned over onto her side and curled up instead.

"If you fuck with your body as well as you fuck with your words, we're going to have an okay time in prison." She commented tiredly.

His laughter sounded almost proud. It made Clara smile.

For the first night in a long time, she didn't even dream at all.

* * *

><p>She woke to the sound of metal scraping metal. She blinked tiredly and watched the metal tray sliding through the hatch.<p>

"Breakfast." The screw outside declared gruffly. Clara listened to the squeaking of the cart as they pushed it away.

Her eyes snagged the mug of tea immediately. She used the toilet quickly, rinsed her mouth out with water quickly, dressed quickly. All in her haste to hold that mug between her palms. She carried the tray carefully over onto her bed and sank down. It was cold and heavy on her thighs, even through the thick cotton of her trousers. She inhaled the smell of the tea and smiled.

"What the—is this supposed to be a scone? Or some sort of…flattened raw potato?"

Clara looked down at her tray. She picked up the triangular object. She tapped it against the metal tray. It didn't even dent.

"I'm going to guess it's a really, really, really old scone." She responded. She lifted it up and peered at the black dots. "With either mold or really tiny flecks of blackcurrants."

"Rubbish." He snapped, his words muffled around a bite of what must've been that rubbish scone. Clara laughed without meaning to.

"I'm not eating it." She decided. She grabbed the slimy, watery porridge instead. "I'll give this porridge a go."

"Braveheart Clara. I wouldn't." He commented. "Ugh, this "scone" is sticking to my tongue like sawdust."

Clara grimaced. "Yeah, no, I'm sticking with the porridge."

A silence lapsed over them as they ate. The porridge was appalling in both texture and taste, but it would keep the hunger pains away until lunchtime. Clara ate out of nervousness more than anything and wondered if they should speak about what happened last night. She was beginning to wonder if she'd dreamed it all up.

"Should we…talk about last night?" She asked tentatively. She took a long sip of her lukewarm tea. It was oversteeped and sharp, but she didn't care. "I mean. I hope you don't think I'm—"

"Clara. I don't think anything negative about you. I enjoyed myself and it seemed like you did, too. It was a nice reprieve from this shit norm."

She let out a relieved breath. She pressed her palm to her cheek.

"Good." She didn't ask if it would happen again, or mention that she really hoped it would. She just took another sip of her tea. He was quiet for a while. Clara wondered what he was thinking about. She finished her breakfast and then stretched out on her bed. She laced her fingers atop her stomach and rested. Her peaceful silence was broken by the Doctor's curious voice.

"Do you miss the army?"

It seemed like a spontaneous question to Clara, but she assumed it somehow tied into whatever he was thinking about. It was likely she'd been mumbling about the army in her sleep.

"Every day." She admitted. She cleared her throat quietly and stared hard at a crack in the ceiling.

He hummed with interest, like that wasn't the answer he'd expected.

"What did you love about it?" He wondered. He sounded a bit confused, like he was having a difficult time understanding why she felt that way. She supposed it might've seemed odd to him. In a way, she'd gone from one prison to another.

It was automatic.

"John and Danny." They were first, always. "And the familial aspect of it. And the control." She paused. She thought to the dining hall. "Also, there was some _really _great onion soup on Wednesdays."

He laughed. She smiled up at the ceiling, pleased.

"That does sound pleasant." He admitted. "What did you hate about it?"

That was automatic, too.

"The deaths. Especially the senseless ones." The back of her throat ached. For a moment, she saw the face of the young boy that had been lost. The young boy that haunted Danny every single night. She was quick to try and bury the thought. "The mattresses were rubbish, too. Though not nearly as bad as these. And most of the tours were absolutely horrible. The sun in the deserts was boiling. My face used to get so sunburned it blistered and bled, no matter what I did." She paused. She fought back a shudder. "And you don't even want to _know _about the spiders."

His tone was mischievous. "I think I do. Tell me all about them, with minute detail. How long were the legs?"

"Ugh!" Clara groaned. She shivered. "That's something I will _not _talk about."

"Were they in the beds? Were they huge and massive, like moon spiders?"

"Shut up!" She stopped. "Wait, what the hell is a moon spider? No—nevermind. _Don't _tell me. I don't want to know."

"Okay, okay," he chuckled. Clara listened to his laughter pander off with a wide smile, despite her torment. She figured it was possible he'd laughed more that day than he had in twenty years. It was a powerful, encouraging thought.

"Doctor?" She asked.

"Clara?"

"What was it like for you? The past twenty years?" She asked tentatively.

It wasn't as automatic for him. His silence drew on, punctured only by contemplative exhalations from his side of the wall.

"Well," he began. He stopped. "I guess it was like Hell. That's what I think Hell must be like. I don't think it's flashy torture. I think it's quiet and it's secluded. Like not talking for two decades to anyone but yourself."

Her pity was choking. She didn't know what to say.

"It's odd," he began. "You forget how to talk in a way. Those first few times I spoke to you, it was like I couldn't get my mouth and my words to match up right. In my mind, it's like I knew what I should've said. I could remember what was polite. But I guess it was just so nice to talk to someone…it all came out without a filter."

She honestly couldn't even imagine what it would be like. How frightening it would be. Vastra and Jenny were the main reasons she'd survived at first.

"Like right now." He continued. "In my head, I know you probably don't care. But my mouth is just glad to be talking."

"Of course I care. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't." She reassured him quickly. She realized he was every bit as damaged by the last series of years as Clara was. "It's so…screwed up that I'm about to say this. But I kind of feel like the worst has passed for both of us." She laughed sourly. "God, never thought I'd be saying that in the prison I'm probably going to die in. Really goes to show how shit things have been in my life."

She took it as a good omen, or maybe even a validation of her statement, when the door to her cell opened only a few seconds after that comment. She stared at the dingy towel.

"Shower time. Let's go."

She never thought she'd grin so hugely because of a shower. She was at the door in only a moment, indifferent to everything else but washing her hair and getting a clean change of clothing. She trailed obediently after the screw, pausing momentarily in front of the shut cell door she knew was the Doctor's. She was about to ask if he was going to get to shower when another screw rounded the corner and stopped at his door, a towel in hand.

"RY2227. Move it!" The screw ordered. Clara shot one more quick, distracted look at the Doctor's door and hurried after her.

_They wouldn't let us shower together_, she told herself. She paced outside the closed door the screw had disappeared into, nude except for the towel around her body. Her heart was thrumming with excitement that she wanted to quell (because she didn't want to have to feel it sink with disappointment). _But this is the end of the hall. Where else would another shower be? _

"In." The screw appeared through the door. Clara caught a glimpse of three cement stalls.

"How long do I get? Is there soap in there?" She asked.

"Ten minutes. Soap is on the bench beside your new clothing issue." The screw replied. Clara had never seen anyone who looked quite as bored as that screw did. She wondered if she was having them shower at the same time to speed up her shift, so she could go home earlier. If so, she was indebted to that woman's parents for making her so lazy.

Clara stepped into the shower room and waited. She was sure the screw would have to come in to supervise. She watched in disbelief as the screw leaned against the wall, her mobile phone already in her hand. After a moment of observation, Clara lifted her eyebrows. _Well then_. She had already checked out.

Regardless of whether or not the Doctor would be joining in the adjoining stall, Clara had to get her shower started. She couldn't wait around for him. She felt it was probably better that he didn't show up. She didn't know if she could keep from initiating something, and she desperately needed to use her ten minutes to bathe. She grabbed her bar of soap off the top of her new uniform and stepped into the stall on the far left. She set the soap down and then turned, slowly swinging the door shut behind her. She jumped when she heard a loud click. She reached down and tugged on the handle. Of course.

"Um," she called loudly. "The stall locked."

"Yep. I'll unlock it after ten minutes." The screw responded dully.

Of course she knew they wouldn't have let her and the Doctor roam about free…but she still felt disappointed. She walked to the far end of the stall and turned the water on. She had prepared herself for freezing cold water, but blessedly, lukewarm water sputtered out. She stepped underneath the erratic spray immediately and turned her back to the shower head. Facing that direction, she noticed something she hadn't before. The short wall between herself and the neighboring stall—and the man stepping into it.

He didn't miss her. He locked eyes with her immediately. He stopped in place and stood straighter, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

"Get in there! What are you looking at?" His screw barked. Clara couldn't see him, but she assumed he was a bit more involved than Clara's had been. And that he probably didn't realize the two stalls weren't entirely separate.

The Doctor followed the order quickly. The wall was just up to Clara's collarbones, but it was only up to the Doctor's chest. There always seemed to be a wall between them, but at least this one was shorter.

"Hello," the Doctor said, surprised. He kept a respectful distance from the wall, obviously realizing he was tall enough to see straight into her side if he approached. Clara, on the other hand, moved as far over as she could without getting out of the shower spray.

"Hi." She called over the water. She hoped the screws couldn't hear them, but judging by the muffled sound of their laughter, they were too busy chatting to care. "Didn't expect this."

"Nor I." He agreed. He looked around himself almost nervously. He lifted his right hand, brandishing the bar of soap. "Got soap. Yay."

It was unexpected and terribly endearing. Clara stared at him for a beat and then burst into laughter, her face split wide with a grin. He grinned back tentatively. She took a step towards the wall.

"We should probably wash," she said, as if she wasn't moving closer to him as she said it.

A similar tether was hooked to him, too. He approached the wall slowly.

"Yeah." He agreed. He set his forearms on top of the short wall. His casual posture brought Clara closer. She'd never been one for modesty, and especially not now, because she wanted to be naked around him. He seemed to notice that confidence and surety. His eyes traced down her face, her neck. She didn't even know how much he could see of her from where he was, but she wished she could see more of him. She eyed him greedily and then reached up. She met his eyes as she rose up onto her tiptoes and settled her forearms down right beside his on the wall ledge. The feeling of his skin against hers was lovely, even if it was just their arms. She didn't break her eyes from his until she felt his fingers touch her wrists. She looked down and watched as he grasped her hands. He stepped back, pulling her hands with him so her arms were extended straight out with her palms facing up. She could feel the skin of his chest against her fingertips.

"What are you doing?" She asked him quietly. Her elbows were resting on the rough cement ledge. Her breasts pressed into her side of the wall.

"Feeling you." He responded simply. She watched the path his palms took as they slid up the smooth skin of her inner forearms. He backtracked back down to her wrists after that, stroking gently, his brow furrowed with concentration. He still puzzled over her and she didn't understand it. He extended his index finger and pressed the tip of it lightly to the most prominent vein in her inner wrist. He followed up it, eventually stopping at her inner elbow. She swallowed hard as he reached up. He grasped her upper arms. His large hands wrapped nearly completely around them. He moved his hands up, and then down, that befuddled expression still in place. He tugged carefully, inadvertently pulling Clara further against the wall. The cold, rough texture was alarmingly nice against her chest. She went to lift her arms slightly—just enough to wrap her hands around _his _forearms, but she stopped when he snapped his eyes to her, surprised.

"You're very strong," he realized. He looked back down at her biceps. She watched his expression as he slid his hands up and down them again. "I can feel your muscles."

She didn't know why he was surprised.

"RAF officer, remember?" She reminded him.

"You could probably kill me."

"Oh, easily," she agreed. She paused. "No offense."

He met her eyes, his owlish and wide. "None taken. I haven't so much as lifted a weight in twenty years." He looked down at her collarbones, which was as far as he could currently see with her body pressed into the wall. "Are you this strong all over?"

She blinked up at him. "Come over here and find out."

His eyes bore into hers. She watched them fill slowly with desire.

"If I could, Clara, I would." He murmured. He licked his lips. "I've been thinking about it all day."

"Me too." She admitted.

He looked back down. He patted her upper arms. "But this is nice, too. Touching you is nice. Doesn't matter where."

"RY227, KI369—five minutes left."

Clara grimaced. When she looked back at the Doctor, he was wearing an identical expression.

"We should wash." She repeated reluctantly.

"Yes, probably." He agreed. But he didn't let go of her and she didn't back up. After a long moment, she took a half-step back, and he unfurled his fingers. They repeated those small steps until they were no longer touching. Clara tried to ignore the way her throat narrowed.

She rubbed the thin bar of soap between her palms and quickly soaped down her body. She rubbed the bar of soap over her wet hair after that, and as she was in the process of turning around to push her soapy head under the spray, she caught a glance of the Doctor through the corner of her eye. He had his head tipped back underneath the facet, his eyes shut. He looked a lot less frantic than Clara felt. Suds fell from his hair (it was curly when wet) and slid down his back. She followed the path until she couldn't anymore.

_Stop_. She obeyed herself for once. She washed the soap from her hair until it made that terrible squeaking sound—she missed shampoo and conditioner—and then she used the last few minutes to rewash her skin and make sure she was fully rinsed. She'd only just finished rinsing the bottom of her right foot when knuckles rasped against her stall door.

"Let's go." Her screw ordered, bored. She flung her towel over the door a moment later. "Quickly."

Clara wrapped the towel around herself and shivered, waiting for the stall to open. Once out in the main room, she took her time gathering her new set of clothes, hoping the Doctor would come out. But his screw didn't seem to be in any rush. Clara followed hers back to her temporary cell.

"How much longer do I have?" Clara risked asking.

Her cell door was promptly slammed in her face. She sighed.

* * *

><p>The Doctor returned ten minutes later. Clara could hear the muffled sound of his screw saying something as he locked him back in, but she couldn't decipher much of it.<p>

"They're definitely fucking." The Doctor greeted her. She heard him sink down on the bed. She crawled up to the top of hers, so she was closer to the wall. She sat with her legs folded underneath her.

"Who?" She asked. "Our screws?"

"Absolutely and without question." He affirmed. "Which is great news for us. They're going to be even more irresponsible now." He let out a sigh. Judging by the slight knock Clara heard against the wall, he'd leaned his head back against it. "Up to talk or should I nap?"

"Talk." Clara said quickly. She was afraid to sleep. It had been that way for a very long time. "You know, I think I'd actually kill a man for a book."

The Doctor hummed in agreement.

"Books would be lovely." He said wistfully.

Clara thought about _Meditations_. She missed the weight of it on her pillow.

"Books would be better than lovely. It would change everything." She felt silly for it, but she could have easily cried over it. Books had been her protection since she was sixteen. She had never been without one. Even on her tours, she kept a miniature copy of _Northanger Abbey _tucked in her inner coat pocket. There was a comfort in dog-eared pages that she couldn't describe to anyone.

"You'll get to have your books again soon. I think they're going to let us out early. You know the commotion we heard earlier? Turns out there was a really violent fight. I have a feeling they're going to want to free up these cells for the instigators."

Clara perked up. Her pulse jumped. "God I hope you're right."

Before, her cell had seemed terribly small and suffocating. But now, when she thought of Vastra, and her books, and her _things_, it made her feel safe and comforted. She never thought she could get so much security from paper and socks and every other mundane thing in that cell, but she did. She couldn't wait to be back in her bed. Sometime during her absence, it had become impossibly comfortable in her mind.

He didn't sound as excited as she'd assumed he'd be.

"Yeah. Hopefully." He muttered.

It only took her a moment. She put herself in his shoes to understand his tone, and as soon as she did, her heart sank to her toes.

This was an improvement for him. This set up, in this solitary cell, was world's better than what he'd had for the past twenty years (what he'd have for the next twenty to come). It was better simply because he could talk to Clara. He lived in solitary every day of his entire life.

Her eyes burned. She struggled to find a bright side for him.

"We'll be able to be together face-to-face during rec." She reminded him. She thought to the location she'd picked in the exercise yard her first day. The cozy spot between the garbage bin and the fence. "I know a spot."

"If they let us." He murmured. His tone was depressed now. "I'm sure there are orders to keep us apart."

Clara thought to the meeting she'd had with the SPO. "I dunno. I convinced the SPO a while back that it was in his best interest to let us entertain each other." She paused. "Between the two of us, I think someone could manipulate the system enough to get around it."

There was a fairly good chance of it, but that didn't seem to matter to him. He was surly the rest of the day. Clara picked at her lunch, but she was too uneasy to eat. By the time dinner rolled around, she was nauseated and tired, but her appetite was still suffering. She listened to the lovebird screws arguing with each other as they dropped the food off.

Finally, the Doctor spoke again.

"I dunno. Maybe they aren't together. They don't sound very in love to me." He commented.

It wasn't what she was hoping to talk about, but Clara was glad he was speaking. She would've gossiped about anything with him.

"Hmm, I disagree. It sounded very bantery to me." She decided. She paused. "Didn't you ever argue with your ex?"

His laughter was dark.

"Not at the start, no. We were childhood sweethearts. Everything was perfect until it wasn't, and as soon as it turned sour, it got very ugly very quickly." He was quiet for a moment. "What about you and John? Were things as lovely as he made them sound?"

A small, sad smile worked its way onto her face. She folded and unfolded her napkin idly.

"Yes and no. We got along wonderfully. But I almost killed him the first time we properly met." She went to laugh, but then she stopped. What a prophetic meeting that turned out to be. She didn't kill him on their first day together, but she did on their last.

Her appetite was definitely gone.

"How did you—"

She blinked rapidly against the tears forming in her eyes. She winced against the vivid images that were beginning to assault her. Of coordinates and weaving clouds and spiraling smoke and a body lost in twisting metal and flickering flames— she wanted them to go away. She wanted to stay _here_. She didn't want to see those things anymore.

She was breaking out in a cold sweat. She tried to breathe around her pounding heartbeat. It was as quick and all-consuming as it always was.

"I can't talk about it." She whispered. She pressed her shaking hands to her face. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Shouldn't've mentioned it."

Off all the things on her mental blacklist, John's death was still the most malicious.

* * *

><p><em>She was sixty pages in and running on a solid two hours of sleep. It could've been university if it weren't for the deep ache in her muscles and the Kandahar sun on the back of her burnt neck. <em>

_Danny said the first tour was always the hardest. But sometimes she caught a look in his eye that made her think it never got much better. When thoughts that like crept into her, she crept away. She had one day to herself every week, and even though she preferred to spend it safely in her bunk, it had been nice to get away from the leers and the immature jokes for a bit. Even if she was putting herself in probably dire danger by walking from base alone. _Never separate from your squadron_. It was a rule Danny repeated daily. _

_She was halfway through with her book when she felt the back of her neck tingle. She looked up—never moving her face, just her eyes—and became aware of someone's presence. She could feel them approaching her from behind. She went against her first instinct (to rise, to run) and shut her eyes. She listened and counted the shifting sound of sand against boot sole as each foot fell. When she'd counted ten steps—the number she'd estimated for the distance between them—she jumped right up and spun. She had her weapon up in two seconds. She'd released the safety in one. _

_Thank God he was wearing his uniform. _

_She lowered her arms immediately. She stared at the man in furious disbelief._

"_You _idiot_!" She shrieked. Her heart was still hammering from her fear. Her palms were slick with sweat. She lowered the rifle and let it hang from the strap around her upper body. She wiped her palms on her canvas trousers. "I could've killed you! Don't you ever sneak up on me or anybody else like that!" _

_She couldn't tell for sure who it was (he still had his sunglasses and helmet on), but she knew he was her comrade from the uniform. At that moment, it didn't matter. She wanted to punch him square in the face. When he peered at her in confusion, it only made her angrier. _

"_Sorry, I didn't think—"_

"_You're right. You didn't." Clara snapped. She stared towards him coldly until he averted his gaze. _

_She stooped over and angrily snatched her book up from the sand. She shook it to get the sand out, not thinking about her bookmark in place. It fluttered from the pages and went spiraling out. Clara lunged forward to catch it at the same moment the soldier did. His helmet and her head slammed hard against each other. Clara's teeth clanked together and the pain bloomed down her neck, to her shoulders. She reached up and cradled her head. _

"_Shit, shit," the man exclaimed. He immediately reached over to touch Clara, but she smacked a hand forward and swatted his hand away. _

"_Don't touch me!" She ordered. She straightened and prodded gently at the top of her head where their heads had made contact. "Christ. What are you doing out here, anyway?!" _

"_It-it's my day off," he sputtered. He fluttered his hands nervously. "I'm so sorry. Really. So, so sorry. I didn't mean to hit you or frighten you. Are you okay?" _

_She lowered her hand. She watched him suspiciously before bending down to get her bookmark, lest he did the same thing as before. When she'd successfully retrieved it and placed it back into her book, she turned back to him. _

"_Fine." She bit. Even though her vision was still a bit wonky. She tucked her book back into her pocket. "See you." _

_She made it perhaps five steps before she heard him hurrying after her. _

"_Wait!" He called. "Um. Well. I actually came to see you." _

_Clara sighed. She turned back around slowly, already thinking up ways to tell him she wasn't interested—and then she saw who it was. He'd removed his glasses. There was no mistaking that funny chin and peculiar lack of eyebrows._

"_Oh." She said. She straightened. "Smith." _

_He blinked at her, surprised. _

"_I didn't think you remembered me." _

_Clara thought back to that day he had saved her. He and Danny both. She hadn't talked to him or really seen much of him since then, but she never forgot it. _

"_You were in Suffolk with me. I remember." She stepped closer. "I didn't realize you were stationed here, too. Whose squadron are you on?" _

_His cheeks were turning an adorable shade of pink, like he was flustered to hear she'd remembered him. He stuttered around his words. _

"_I-I'm with Rand. What about you?" _

"_Pink." She reached up and tightened her ponytail, intent on keeping her hair off her already hot neck. "What did you need? Let's walk."_

_She set back towards base. He quickly sped up and matched her pace. She kept her eyes on the hot ground as she waited for him to speak. _

"_I was hoping you could help me." He began. He fiddled nervously with his hands again. "I'm…uh. Okay. I'm…I've got this…" He bowed his head and huffed in frustration. "I'm scared of heights."_

_Clara didn't mean to stop walking. He stopped a bit after her and turned back, embarrassed. She stared. _

"_You're scared of heights?" She repeated, incredulous. "You're in the RAF!" _

"_Yeah, it hasn't been very enjoyable." He muttered. _

_Clara eyed him curiously. "What do you need from me?" _

_She set back towards base. He followed again. _

"_I thought maybe you could help me, seeing as though you've got a phobia of fire and you do all right."_

_This time, when she stopped, he crashed right into her back. She spun around to face him once she regained her balance. _

"_Who told you that?" She asked sharply. _

_He faltered. He leaned back from her, as if frightened. _

"…_No one? It's obvious, isn't it? I mean, that day, when the demonstration set caught flame, you collapsed. And every other time you shook for a long time afterwards. I was worried about you, but you're doing so well now, so I figured you must've figured out how to overcome it—"_

_Clara pressed her finger into Smith's chest. _

"_I do not have a fire phobia." She said lowly. She stared him in the eye. His eyes widened. _

"_O…kay." He allowed. She turned away from him. "But will you help me?"_

"_Oh, my God," she groaned underneath her breath. She could hear him trailing along behind her. _

"_I'm not trying to be _thrilled_ with high places. I just don't want to feel sick every time I'm up there." He continued. "So I want to be as comfortable as you'd need to be to light birthday candles, but not as comfortable as you'd have to be to go to a bonfire. Like that." _

_Clara looked back at him. _

"_I'm _not_ frightened of fire!" She yelped. It was important that no one knew that she was. Because if they knew she was, they might ask her why. _

"_Sure, sure," he agreed. He paused. "So how about we meet in the lounge at three on Wednesdays? Yeah? Okay, I'll be waiting for you by the door."_

"_Look, I really don't—"_

"_Please, Oswald." He interrupted. He cast his green eyes up at her. He pushed his lower lip out in a pout. "I'll bring you tea." _

_Clara groaned underneath her breath. She shut her eyes and sighed deeply. _

"_Fine. But I really don't think I'm the right person for—." _

_His arms latched around her before she could say a thing. He crushed her to his body in a warm, exuberant hug. _

"_Thank you, thank you, thank you," he gushed. He pulled her back and then leaned down, pressing a loud kiss to her forehead. He beamed afterwards. "I'm so glad we're friends."_

"_We're not friends." Clara said flatly. _

"_Not yet. But we're close. We're like…buds." _

"_No." _

"_Okay. Maybe not buds. Acquaintances." _

"_Um." _

_He looked down at her. "Clara Oswald. There's no way we're strangers." _

"_This is the first conversation we've ever had." _

"_But I already feel so close to you." He said cheerfully. _

_Clara looked up at the hot sun. _What have I done, _she thought to herself. _There will be no ridding myself of him now. _As if there weren't enough pests out there. _

"_You'll see, Clara," he continued. His tone was happy, light. Indifferent to Clara's annoyance. "We'll be best mates before the season changes." _

_She rolled her eyes theatrically._

* * *

><p>He was wrong, like she'd known he'd be.<p>

They were lovers by the time the season changed.

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry for earlier." Clara said. It was late. She wasn't sure if the Doctor was even awake. "I get these memories. Flashbacks, I guess. Some things are too consuming to think about."<p>

"It's all right." He said. "I understand."

He probably did.

"I meant what I said earlier. About us spending outdoor hour and recreation together." She commented. _You're being a pest_, she told herself. She didn't care. "I'll be waiting for you by the door."

She hoped he fell asleep feeling less alone.


	10. Truth Number Two

**A/n: **Sorry for the wait, I meant to have this out sooner but I severely sprained my wrist and am now learning the perils of typing one-handed. Hoping to have things back to normal soon- thank you all so much for the reviews (and for reading!) x

* * *

><p>Of all the clichés that might've been true, "the road to hell is paved with good intentions" rang truest.<p>

Clara woke up before the Doctor (she knew because she could hear him snoring), and to occupy her mind, she went through everyone she knew here and all their offenses. As she did, she truly couldn't come up with even one person who had done something terrible to purposely harm anyone. The closest she came was herself.

There was Dr. Martha Jones who—as the Doctor had shared with her during one of their many conversations—compassionately euthanized her suffering and terminal patients. She was in prison not because she'd hurt anybody who didn't want to be hurt. She was in prison simply because what she'd done was illegal.

Clara's knowledge of Vastra's past was still sketchy, and there were some dubious comments about cannibalism that Clara sincerely hoped were hyperbolic in nature, but Clara did know that everyone she'd hurt had been violent criminals. Vastra had told her that her mission in life was to protect women and children. Her crime was the violent way she went about that.

Jenny. Sweet Jenny that Clara already loved, who put everybody before herself. She'd asked her what she'd done once. All she received back was a distant look and the words "I was a maid, so I did what I do. I cleaned house."

And then there was the Doctor and his baby. Clara refused to ask him any more about it, because she couldn't imagine the pain losing an infant would cause. She felt she was right to assume it had cut him deeply and irreparably. She still didn't know how many people he'd killed or why exactly he'd done it, but she knew if it was for an organization that John was part of too—and it was somehow involved with protecting his disabled daughter—that it couldn't be that morally offensive.

Lastly, there was her.

She felt she was on the darkest end of the spectrum.

It was true that she'd done it for John. But how noble was that, really? Deep down, it was disturbingly selfish. She wasn't thinking about anyone but herself and how much _she _needed John. How much _she _loved him, wanted him, relied on him. How much _she _would be lost without him. She had lied in court and insisted she'd "seen red" and that she wasn't even aware of what she was doing. But that was a terrible lie. It was calculated and planned. She had done what she was trained to do: locked her mind on her target and set about retrieving him, no matter the odds. The same people who'd trained her so fabulously in reconnaissance were treated to a firsthand demonstration of her might. She set those soldiers loose on their officers—fully knowing there would be deaths and injuries—and she hadn't even convinced herself that it was for the greater good, because at the time, she didn't even care enough to stop and wonder if what she was doing was right. She just knew she had to do it.

So maybe she shared a cell with a woman who allegedly ate the face off of a child murderer.

But Vastra was doing something to save dozens of innocent lives and families. She had attacked a specific, guilty target.

Clara could not say the same.

* * *

><p><em>Clara was wholeheartedly certain that the intermingled sound of John's pen scratching paper and the oscillating fan was the best sound in the entire world. <em>

_Forget music. Forget audiobooks. Forget flutes, violins, pianos, babbling creeks, waterfalls, rain on tin roofs. She would never hear anything better. _

_She had been stretched out on her stomach, enjoying the breeze of the fan on her naked skin. But then John's pen scratched away for longer than it typically did on their sleepy Wednesday mornings, so she rolled over onto her side to peer at him. He was hunched over, his notebook in his lap. Clara smiled tiredly at the way his brow was furrowed so seriously. The small pout to his lips was insanely kissable. _

_She stretched her arm out and reached up. She lightly touched his brow. _

"_What are you writing about?" She asked curiously. _

_He looked up distractedly, but seemed to find interest in what he saw. He straightened and grinned down at her broadly, obviously forgetting her question. She bit the inside of her cheek as he reached over and set his palm on her bare hip. He smoothed his hand slowly down the curve of her outer thigh and then back up. _

"_I always want to set toy cars on your hipbone and let them slide down your legs." He commented. _

_Not for the first time, what Clara assumed would be a sexual instigation turned into a befuddling—albeit slightly adorable—statement. She shook her head fondly. _

"_Most men would just make a comment like…'nice arse'." Clara pointed out helpfully. _

_He frowned. "No. No, no. I'm not talking about your arse. I'm talking about the curve of your hip. It's very different. This is the perfect curve for something to slide down. A marble, maybe." He snapped his fingers and locked eyes with her, elated. "Bullets. Clara, bullets would—"_

_She silenced his mouth with hers. He tasted like peppermint, courtesy of his toothpaste that morning. _

"_You are insane." She murmured softly. Her lips brushed against his as she did. She rolled her forehead against his. Her eyes fluttered shut as their cheeks caressed. She liked the warmth of his breath on her parted lips. "And you never answered me, Smith." _

_He turned his head just slightly. He rubbed his nose affectionately against the side of hers in some sort of lazy eskimo kiss. _

"_I'm writing about you." He admitted. He sounded bashful. _

_She leaned back. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. _

"_Me?" She clarified. She smiled. "That's sweet. I think. Is it nice things?" _

_He ducked his head, embarrassed. His cheeks were pink. _

"_I'm telling my granddad all about the mission last week. And how amazing you were." _

_Clara's stomach fluttered. John's granddad was the most important person in his life, and coincidentally was the reason John was in the RAF in the first place. His granddad had been the Air Vice Marshal a number of years ago, and he loved the air force more than life itself. It was a testament to John's love for his granddad that he was here. He hated the army, and even though Clara wouldn't have ever said it aloud, John was a terrible soldier. He was too sensitive, too carefree at times, too...well, trusting. Innocent. But he loved his granddad, so he stayed. And according to John, Clara was the only woman he had ever seemed to approve of. Her being a successful army girl did all of the heavy lifting. _

"_All I did was carry a few kids out of a building." Clara dismissed quickly, eager to end that particular subject. _

_John frowned. He set his notebook to the side, as if this was a very serious matter. He gestured towards the window. _

"_Go out there and ask one of those people what you did. I promise not one of them is going to say you "just carried a few kids". You saved them." _

_Clara wasn't sure why she felt embarrassed. Perhaps it was because she'd gotten so emotional about the entire experience. She didn't want to talk about the state she'd been in when she found him that following night. _

"_I wasn't trying to." _

"_Clara." _

"_What? I wasn't. I was just doing what needed to be done." _

"_You're not a mathematics student. You can't convince me your brain is that analytical and clean-cut." He paused. He seemed to be considering what he said before he said it. "You walked right into that building. Why aren't you even a little bit proud of yourself?" _

_She looked down. _

"_Mostly I'm just trying to forget about it. Walking into a burning building was pretty traumatizing." She muttered. _

_He sighed. She watched him pull his notebook back over to him. _

"_Well, you saved three children. I'm pretty sure you've got a good karma overload now. No matter what sinful things you do from this point on, I think you're in the clear." _

"_I don't think it works like that." _

"_Sure it does." _

"_No…I don't think so." _

"_Yeah. You have your 'get into heaven, no exceptions' card now. We could rob a bank worry-free." _

_Clara rolled her eyes—a common response to a lot of the things he said. But she always made sure to kiss him afterwards, just to make sure he knew. He was absolutely mad, but she loved the hell out of him._

* * *

><p><em>The truth was that it had ripped her apart to hear those people screaming inside the building. <em>

_Especially since it was a neighboring squadron's fault that the flames were eating it in the first place. _

_It was a mistake, an incorrect hit—and an unnecessary one. Danny never made strikes against civilians unless it was absolutely necessary. Rand wasn't quite as sensible. _

_She had thought that they would all rush to the aid of those inside, because that's what they did, right? Saved people? But she realized in one complete, quick moment, as she stood frozen in panic and watched all her comrades do the same, that perhaps that wasn't what they were after all. _

_It was the sight of a mother falling to her knees that slapped Clara out of her stupor. _

_Her cheek was pressed into the dusty ground. Her chest was heaving. There were no tears because there weren't even any breaths. Clara knew what that felt like. _

_She had shrugged Danny's concerned hand off her shoulder. Had flung her weapon onto the ground beside her, removed the second one at her waist, shrugged off her heavy jacket. _

"_Clara?" Danny demanded. It didn't take him long. "Don't you dare." _

_She dared. _

_And afterwards, once the children were returned to their families, she felt her throat stitch closed. She spent the entire ride back viciously fighting back her tears. She kept seeing the burn marks on the kids' skin. They were alive, and their injuries weren't debilitating, but they were hurt. And so many other people had died. Their families. The mother of two of them._

_She hated seeing anybody in pain. She had to get over that. _

_It was Danny who found her after her long crying session. She'd been wandering the base, heading for John's building, but she'd forgotten Danny was supervising the nighttime patrol. _

"_What's happened?" He asked. She ducked her face, but it was too late. His large hand pressed her flushed cheek. "Come here. Look here." _

_She found it hard to ignore his commands. He was the only superior officer she had ever willingly followed all orders from, and that was only because she trusted him that much. He had nominated her for Initial Officer Training that coming fall, but she was certain that even when she had her own squadron that she'd still listen to him. _

_So she looked up at him. She met his concerned eyes. _

"_You can't save them all, Clara." He said softly._

_She balled up her heart. She tensed her muscles and stood straight. She wouldn't cry in front of Danny especially. _

"_Why not?" _

_He moved his hand to her shoulder. She felt the tears rising inside of her, threatening to spill out. She gripped tighter onto her control. _

"_Because it's impossible." _

_She shrugged out of his grip. _

"_Nothing's impossible." _

_She was just barely holding on when she crept into John's building. She padded silently down the rows of bunks, ignoring the odd looks she received from the inhabitants who were still awake. She stopped at the back and lifted John's covers. He jumped and startled from his light sleep when she slid into his bed. _

"_Clara?" He whispered. He reached up and wrapped his arms around her body (that still smelt of smoke). He pressed his face into her hair (that still smelt of smoke). And Clara let go of the reins on her heart (that still smelt of smoke). Her first sob was silent, muffled against his neck. He gripped her tightly to him. _

"_Oh, Clara," he whispered, stricken. It was the very first time she'd ever cried in front of him. She felt ashamed. He rubbed her back and tugged her even closer. He intertwined their legs. "What is it?" _

_She breathed her words so hopefully no one else would hear them. _

"_It's impossible to save everybody." _

"_What? Who told you that?" John asked. "That's rubbish." _

"_No it's not. It's true. I know it is. But I guess…I guess I only just realized it." _

"_It's not true. And even if it was…well. You're the most impossible girl in the entire world. If anybody could do it, you could." She took a shuddering breath and gripped his shirt in her fists. She was panicked because she didn't feel in control. Not when she fell apart. "You could save anybody, anything." _

"_Stop." She mumbled, but her voice was laced with tears. _

"_No. It's the truth. Out of everybody here, every single officer and every single gunner and soldier, you are the only one I would trust wholeheartedly with my life. And it's not just because you're madly and terribly in love with me." Clara's laugh was weak and watery. He smiled against the top of her head. "It's because you're the most capable. And don't tell me I'm biased, or that it's not true, because who was the only person jumping into a burning building today?" _

_She didn't respond. He didn't care. _

"_You. And who's the only person here with a deep phobia of fire?" _

_It was automatic. "Not scared of fire." She mumbled into his neck. He ignored her, and rightly so. _

"_You." He completed. His fingers stroked slowly through her hair. "Clara. I'm so proud to be yours."_

_Ordinarily, she would've made a face and grumbled about his cheesy comments. But it hit her hard that night. Her heart swelled and her eyes burned. It meant so much to hear that—enough that she almost didn't even want to tell him. She wanted to keep it secret inside of herself. _

"_I'm proud to be yours, too," she finally said. _

_He leaned back and kissed her lips. She wanted it to last forever. She could have lived in that moment until the end of time._

* * *

><p><em>John carefully sealed his letter. Clara watched from the edge of his bed. She was in the process of getting dressed. The other men in his bunk would be returning soon and she didn't want to be found lounging about nude. <em>

"_I lied to you before." John admitted sheepishly. Clara turned and looked back at him. _

"_Oh?" She asked, her eyebrows raised. He crawled forward and sat on the edge beside her. He looked down at his feet. Clara watched him tap them nervously. _

"_I wasn't really writing about that mission." He glanced up at her for a moment, but then he looked back down, his face red. "I was telling my granddad that you're the person I want to spend the rest of my life with."_

* * *

><p><em>There were always two truths to everything. There was the one you told people, the nice or understandable one. And then there was the hoarded one that didn't make any sense at all. <em>

_The second truth that Clara couldn't bear to voice aloud was that she hadn't jumped into that burning building for anyone but herself. _

_In that split, sick second, she hadn't decided to save anyone. She hadn't thought to herself: _all those people, all those _children_. _She'd snapped and her mind had reverted to a dark place, and she had thought: _I want to know what it feels like to die by fire for somebody else.

_It wasn't a suicidal cry towards the heavens. It was a quiet wish to understand, to share an experience. To somehow be close to her mother again in the only way that was left._

* * *

><p>She was crying when he finally woke up.<p>

"Clara?" He asked groggily.

She couldn't respond. A frantic agony had taken root inside of her. She paced the floors and wrung her hands. She needed to be out of that room—she couldn't be in there any longer. The emptiness, the quiet, the mold, the metallic water, the lack of food…she told herself it was all these things making her lose it. As if she hadn't tortured herself with memories.

"I have to get out of here." She told him tearfully. "I can't stand it. Please."

"We should be out soon. Take a deep breath."

"I can't."

"You can do anything you set your mind to."

She could've laughed, if only she didn't feel so sick. (No she couldn't. The proof was in two bodies.)

"Have you tried the toast?" He asked. His voice was calm, even. She hadn't even realized the tray had been delivered. She sometimes forgot things. And sometimes—she didn't.

"What?" She asked shakily.

"The toast. It's hard as a rock. Let's see who can eat it quickest without breaking a tooth."

"No, I—I don't, I'm not hungry." She muttered, confused.

"Then I automatically win." He boasted. There was a long pause. His tone was light, conversational. "You know, I killed an MP with toast once. Well, marmalade. Well, arsenic. It was a lazy Sunday."

If his purpose had been shock value, it worked fairly well. Clara forgot what she was gasping over for a lovely moment, her mind narrowing in on his admission.

"Seriously?" She asked thickly. She sniffed against her leaky nose.

"Seriously." He affirmed. "So no need to feel badly about yourself. I'm at least thirty times crueler than you."

"I'm not sure poisoning someone's marmalade once makes you qualified for that." Clara argued shakily.

"That was just my lazy Sunday."

She could've asked then. Everything was in her favor—he felt sorry for her, she sounded pathetic enough, he was offering details. But she didn't want to manipulate him into giving away anything. It felt like the grandest betrayal of all.

"My idea of a lazy Sunday was reading in bed from dawn 'till dusk." She said instead.

"What about John?" He asked, and Clara felt her heart clench.

"What about him?" She asked sharply.

"Well, was he with you during your lazy Sundays?" He asked calmly.

"Oh. Yes, usually. Though he used to irritate me like no one else could." She stopped, but found she wanted to keep going. "He used to read over my shoulder and make these…cheeky little comments every few pages. Oh, it drove me _mad_."

Now the thought of it made the corners of her mouth twitch up, and her heart pang with longing. She never would've guessed that the things that made her so angry back then were the things that she'd kill to have again.

And because he'd broached the topic, she felt safe doing the same.

"Did Missy take part in your murderous Sundays?"

"Hmm, yes." He answered. "Until she decided her allegiances were located elsewhere. She was the star witness against me in court."

The betrayal must have felt worse than anything.

"I'm sorry." Clara said honestly.

"Don't be. It's nice to see people's true natures. Then you can stop fooling yourself."

She almost said _but everyone isn't like that. John and Danny aren't (weren't) like that_. But she didn't want to put the spotlight on them, in case he knew something she didn't. She couldn't bear to have the good memories she had corrupted.

Silence soaked over them. Clara listened to the footsteps from above.

"What did you do on your most…productive Tuesday?" She wondered.

This time, his silence went on for a very long time. So long that Clara feared he wouldn't respond at all. When he finally did, she wondered if maybe he shouldn't have.

"You remember Saxon, I'm sure."

"Of course." Clara affirmed hesitantly. But she was already bridging the gaps. She knew that must've been the Prime Minister he'd killed, as he was the only one who had died in power, but she and the rest of the world were told he'd died of natural causes. "But he died of a stroke."

"Sure, in history books, he died of a stroke." The Doctor agreed. "Considering what was going on, it was in the country's best interest to keep it all hush-hush."

"Well?" Clara pressed. "What happened to Saxon on your productive Tuesday?"

"He went in for his acupuncture appointment." His voice was matter-of-fact, cold. "I'm afraid he didn't quite leave it the same."

Anything Clara might've been brave enough to ask was drowned out by the sound of the door banging opening.

"RY2227—out. You're back to your cell." The screw greeted.

Clara didn't move at first. She stared, waiting for the catch.

"Sorry?" She asked.

The screw narrowed her eyes. "_Out_! I haven't got all day. Move, move, move!"

Clara grabbed John's wristwatch off the sink. It was all she had with her. She didn't even bother pulling the shirt on over her undershirt.

* * *

><p>The very first thing she did upon returning to her cell was throw herself at Vastra.<p>

She wrapped her arms around the tattooed woman and gripped her closely, her eyes searing and throat aching. Vastra was frozen in her embrace.

"You're back." Vastra said dumbly, stunned. It was so unlike her. But so was the tentative hug she gave Clara after a moment.

"You're okay," Clara beamed. She sniffed and dutifully ignored the way her vision had gone blurry.

"Wish I could say the same for the bastards who poisoned me." Vastra commented casually. She sighed with mock disappointment. "Ever so tender in the end."

Like a lot of Vastra's comments, Clara decided it was best not to ask for more information. She pulled back from Vastra and turned, taking in her unchanged bed and desk. She flung herself back on top of the covers. Her arm slipped underneath the blanket and searched. She curled her fingers around the spine of _Meditations. _

"In comparison, this feels like freedom." She shared.

"I suppose that answers my question about what solitary was like." Vastra responded. Clara sat up on the bed and crawled to the end of it. She leaned forward and grabbed a notebook and pen from the desk, intent on writing an apology to Danny for her absence and sending it on that very same day, but she found after a moment that she didn't feel like writing to him. She just wanted to touch her belongings. There was comfort in owning things.

"How's your Doctor?" Vastra inquired. "Did you see him at all?"

Clara looked up at Vastra. She considered telling the truth for a moment, but then she changed her mind.

"Fine. I saw him once or twice. He's used to solitary." Clara's throat narrowed at the sudden thought of what he'd gone back to. "Have—have we had outdoors time yet?"

"Just got back. Lunch should be here any moment. We're stuck eating in our cells for the week, thanks to all the fights." Vastra said. She caught the crestfallen expression on Clara's face before she could mask it.

"It's true, isn't it?"

Clara looked down and away. "What?"

"You and the Doctor. Everybody's saying you're involved."

"Oh." Clara said. She paused. "Well…yes, in a manner of speaking."

Vastra stared at her for a beat. And then she shook her head almost in wonder.

"I will _never _understand straight women."

Clara arched an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry—who in here is straight?"

Vastra arched an eyebrow right back.

* * *

><p>It was later, right before recreation, that Clara was able to put some meaning to the way she'd been feeling.<p>

She'd spent the entire day feeling an unexpected mixture of guilt and anxiety, and she wasn't sure why. Isn't this what she wanted? To be back with Vastra, with Jenny, with her books? She understood her feelings when she allowed herself to accept that the Doctor was the root of them.

"Vastra? Do you ever feel…" and then she stopped, because it suddenly seemed silly to ask.

Vastra stared at her unrelentingly. She waited. Clara had no choice but to follow through.

"Do you ever feel…uneasy, knowing the kinds of things everybody here has done?"

Vastra looked back down at her book, like the conversation was shaping up to be incredibly boring.

"No. Because I've done things, too." She answered. "I can take care of myself. And, as I understand, so can you."

But that wasn't what she meant.

"I don't mean…uneasy because you're afraid they'll hurt you physically. I know most of us are very capable of protecting ourselves. I meant more…" she didn't want to say emotionally. "Do you ever worry that you'll be betrayed? Or, rather, that your trust will be?"

Vastra looked back up at that. She looked concerned.

"Should I be worried about that?" She wondered, a bit suspiciously. "Funny thing for _you _to be asking. Queen of mutiny and all that."

It was a fair point.

"Is this about the Doctor?" Vastra wondered then. She shifted her book over onto her bed and looked at Clara curiously. "Did he tell you what he did to end up here?"

It was automatic, loyal, and at least half-truthful. "No."

Vastra observed her for a moment. "And would you tell me if he had?"

"…No." She admitted with an apologetic grimace.

Vastra nodded firmly. "Good."

She went back to her book.

"The way I see it, Ossie," she turned the page. "You get the loyalty you give."

It made her stomach hurt.

* * *

><p>Of all the things she'd expected, a visitor that afternoon was not one of them.<p>

She had assumed it would be _months _before she was allowed a visitor. But five minutes before recreation, the SPO himself appeared at her cell door. Vastra went visibly slack-jawed with surprise.

"Clara," he greeted, and that in itself made Clara's skin prick. "I'm afraid you'll be missing recreation. Pity."

She didn't even noticed she'd clenched her fists in anger until she felt the sting of her nails biting into her flesh. She had to fight to keep her anger internalized.

"And why is that, _sir_?" She asked.

He was smiling hugely, like he was in on something she wasn't. Which he almost certainly was.

"Because Mr. Danny Pink is here to call on you."

She stared. A strong ache began in the center top of her forehead, and it wasn't until she heard the racing of her heart that she realized it was from the sudden spike in her blood pressure and pulse. She didn't dare trust him.

"You're not serious." She deadpanned.

"As the plague. He's traveled quite a long way, so let's not keep him waiting any longer." He ordered.

Clara shot a quick look at Vastra, who nodded and shrugged simultaneously. Clara rose unsteadily to her feet. She suddenly wished she'd been able to shower first. She knew she looked like she'd been through hell and back.

"You are allotted the entire recreation period to visit with him." He told Clara. They walked at a leisurely pace, even though Clara wanted to run down the halls. He stopped her before entering the visiting room. He peered hard into her eyes. "If you behave from now on, I will personally allow you two hours of visiting each and every day. It's a generous offer, Ms. Clara. One that is unprecedented. You'd do well not to waste it."

She wanted to ask him exactly what he meant by "behave", but she was ushered into the room before she could.


	11. Liar, Liar

She had nearly forgotten what joy felt like. So when the feeling hit—when she felt her heart soar upwards, lighter than ever, her face open with a grin, laughter bubble up in the pit of her stomach—it was almost alarming.

And it was sickening how quickly she had forgotten the sight of him. How quickly she'd forgotten how secure she felt in his arms, the smell of him, the short, throaty laugh he always gave when she hurdled herself into his embrace. She gripped his shirt so tightly in her fists that she was likely ruining the fabric, and she swore with her face tucked into his neck that she wouldn't let herself forget again. It did her a disservice to.

"Commander Oswald," he greeted. She didn't have to lean back to see he was smiling. She could hear it in his voice.

"Group Captain Pink." She shot back, but her voice lacked her usual airy sass. She sounded choked up and aching.

She knew he could sense how spread apart she was as he cupped her shoulders. He touched her gently, like she might break, and she honestly couldn't recall being touched like that in years and years. Not since her mother died. Certainly not in the army. For reasons unknown to her, being touched as if she was broken made her feel even more shattered. Especially when that touch came from someone who ordinarily held her like she was powerful (because she had been, once).

He pulled her back and looked down at her face. His dark eyes were tender. His body was still as solid and strong as it had been, but Clara could see evidence of the emotional toll losing his two best friends had caused. The skin beneath his eyes was puffy. His cheekbones were perhaps a bit sharper than they had been. He looked exhausted.

She looked down at his fingers as he moved them to her cheek. He traced them over her skin, and Clara didn't even remember her face was injured until she felt the light sting of pain that touch caused. She had scraped her face during her botched escape. She hadn't even cleaned it. She wondered when she'd gotten as detached from her own body as she was from the outside world.

"What is happening in there?" He wanted to know. His eyes drifted from her eyes, to her lips, to her injured cheek. He was so close she could feel the warmth coming off his body. It felt better than anything. "What have they done to you?"

She reached up and wrapped her hands around his wrists. Even her fingers felt weak. She stroked her thumb over the back of his wrist as she struggled to maintain her composure. She looked down at his chest and breathed shallowly through her parted lips, trying her hardest to quell her tears. She didn't want Danny to see her crying. That hadn't changed.

"It's just a scrape," she finally managed. She avoided his question all together.

"Clara," he reprimanded. He paused. "I'm not stupid, you know."

She licked her dry lips. She tightened her grip on his wrists and squeezed her eyes shut tightly. If he didn't see the tears, they didn't exist.

"No, I know, I do, that's not what I—" she stopped, because when she risked a glance up at his face, he was wearing that patient but x-raying expression that always broke her. She dropped her hands from his wrists. She held onto the lapels of his jacket. She shut her eyes as she smoothed them down, her mind working rapidly to come up with a way of saying: _I'm not okay, I'm not okay, please, help, _without sounding desperate. "Things are quite bad." She settled with.

"I wouldn't imagine them being any different." Without another word, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Let's sit."

Clara had been so focused on Danny that she'd disregarded the visiting room until that moment. It was lavish compared to everywhere else inside the prison. It had new, plush carpeting running from wall to wall, the lighting was bright and cheery, the walls were a crisp yellow shade that reminded Clara of a honeydew melon. They settled down onto the sofa against the back wall. It was the most comfortable thing Clara had rested on since arriving, and her back ached because of it. She guessed it wasn't used to leaning against something soft instead of hard.

She was glad that Danny didn't remove his heavy arm from her shoulders. It felt comforting, safe, familiar. Like home. It was funny—it had been years and years since she'd had a home. She'd moved about the world and never settled for long in any one place. She guessed it was because of that that her only two constants had become home (John and Danny). Now she had a solid "home" but no constants.

"I've missed you so much, Clara." Danny admitted thickly. Clara leaned her head against his arm and turned her face up, looking towards Danny. He looked down at her. It reminded her of the warm nights she, John, and Danny spent together in front of the television, when they weren't on tours. She sat between them on the sofa and pretended to watch one of their silly films. She usually ended up nodding off between them, lulled to sleep by the warmth of their bodies and a day full of good food and loads of laughing. If only she could be that girl again.

"I've missed you, too," she admitted thickly. And because she just had to know: "How was his funeral?"

"Honorable." Danny answered. He didn't say anything else, even though Clara waited. She wondered if it hurt to speak of it. She wondered if he blamed himself, too.

She tried not to give into the aching in her chest.

"Was his Granddad there?" She asked. Her voice was wavering. Her hand closed over John's wristwatch. "I suppose not, since I have this."

Danny looked at her oddly.

"Clara, he's the reason you have it. Didn't you get his letter?"

Clara felt her heart seize for a moment. She sat straight up and turned so she was facing Danny.

"What?" She asked. "No. I didn't. I got this in a box of things my dad sent, I assumed…" she stopped. "I bet they confiscated the letter when they went through my things." She felt assaulted, violated. She fought against the angry tears threatening to rise. "Do you know what it said?"

Danny looked down and away. He wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Yes, or at least, I've an idea." He admitted. Danny was never anything less than truthful. "But I think it will upset you."

Her heart pounded. "Try me." She ordered.

He was quiet.

"Clara—"

"No. Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up." She was twisting the wristwatch around and around and around her wrist. "Tell me."

He met her eyes again. He studied her expression carefully before uttering a word.

"John was almost finished saving up for a ring. His granddad thought…well. You know. He wanted you to have something of his even if it wasn't his ring."

Danny knew nothing as well as he knew Clara. It did upset her. Worse than that—it made her feel ill. Nothing hurt worse than what should have been. But her gut reaction was nearly hysterical disbelief.

"He doesn't blame me? He—he doesn't—" she stopped and looked down. She took a shaking breath and started again. "I thought he would hate me. Because I—_killed _him. I went against rank. I was a horrible soldier. I—"

"Clara." Danny interrupted. She stopped and looked at him, her eyes hot and hazy. "You did everything a superior officer should do. You fought to the death for your soldiers."

She didn't agree, and she found it difficult to believe his granddad thought that, but she didn't argue. She blinked rapidly and tried to fight back against her tears.

"I didn't know. About the ring." She admitted thickly. She looked down at her knees.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. Even though it wasn't his fault. It was hers. "It isn't what he deserved. It isn't what you deserved."

Clara thought about all the people in that prison. She lifted her shaking hand and wiped the wetness off her cheeks.

"Nobody deserves anything." She realized. "There's nobody keeping score, Danny. It just comes down to what you're willing to do to get what you want. It comes down to who owes you."

"That doesn't sound like Clara Oswald." He said uneasily.

"Haven't you heard? I'm not Clara Oswald. I'm RY2227." She spat.

His hand caught hers. His grip was tight, firm—not at all like the fragile way he'd touched her before. She looked up at him, her eyes burning, cheeks wet. She looked at the calm but firm expression on his face. It was one she knew very well.

"You are better than that." He told her. It was quiet after those words. She stared at him, and he stared at her, and all the while she could feel tears sloshing about inside of her. "I don't know what they've done to break you down like this, but I know Clara Oswald. She is the most amazing, most wondrous—most _capable _and kind and strong person in the entire universe. How could you let them make you forget that?"

It was unfair. She snatched her hand from his. She pursed her lips together.

"You've no idea what you're talking about. You're out of your depth."

She cringed away when his hand settled against her cheek. His eyes bore into hers anyway.

"I met you when you were still shaken from what happened with your mum. But even then, Clara. Even then you were fighting back. Why are you stopping now?"

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. It took her a moment.

"Because I lost, Danny. I'm here for the rest of my life. John is dead. My mum is dead. You've been taken from me, my dad has been taken from me. I don't know—" she stopped and turned her face away. She had to close her eyes and take six measured breaths before she could control her tears. "I don't know what there's left to fight for."

It was easy for him to see.

"Yourself, Clara." He reached up and rubbed his face. It was only then that Clara realized he had tears sparkling in his eyes. "You're stuck in here, but you don't have to die before you even _die_. If you can't fight your way out, fight the system. Do what you need to do to thrive, to live. Make a life worth having. Even if it's a life in here."

"But—"

His words were gentle. "That's an order, Commander. I taught you how to fight—put it to good use. I love you too much to watch you waste away."

And despite it all, she loved him too. Maybe not the way he needed her to, the way he wished she did. But despite the tangled definitions of their love for each other, they loved each other deeply and without reserve. They would have died for each other—and almost had on many occasions. They were partners in everything.

"You have no idea what it's like in here, Danny." She admitted.

"I don't." He agreed. "But I want you to find a way to get the respect you deserve. Have you made any friends yet? Not that there's a lot to choose from in a Cat A prison, but…" he trailed off.

It was a comment she would've made before this, too. But for some reason, his words offended her. She had to stop herself from scolding him, from saying: _Don't lump them all into one category of worthlessness, because I'm one of them. _

"I have three friends." She said instead. She didn't know why, but she was hesitant to speak of the Doctor. "My cellmate's name is Vastra. She's a sort of...vigilante. She is strong and firm in what she believes. Jenny's her girlfriend and she's an absolute gem. She's kind, warmhearted, thoughtful. They are really lovely."

He had always paid close attention to numbers and detail.

"The third?" He wondered.

Clara looked away.

"Hmm?"

"The third. You said you made three friends. Vastra and Jenny make two."

"Oh, yeah," she said casually. "Sorry, yeah. The third's a genius. Very mysterious and clever. Very—"

She stopped, because it was difficult to put words to him.

"Loyal." She decided upon. She thought about the deep tenor of his voice as he told her how to touch herself, how to find even a fragment of pleasure in Hell. "Helpful." _Kind, deep down. Thoughtful. Protective. Attractive. Brave. _"We were put in solitary together."

Danny's expression morphed so quickly that Clara felt her spine tingle with fear.

"What?" She demanded.

His expression turned steely. "You're talking about the Doctor."

Clara stared.

"Yes. How did you…"

Danny straightened. He peered at her seriously, his eyes dark. "Clara, the Senior Prison Officer told me all about him. He told me what he did. You can't hang around him. Promise me you won't. He's dangerous."

Clara furrowed her brow.

"He's done some things, but who in here hasn't?" She forced herself to say it. "In case you've forgotten, I'm responsible for eleven deaths."

"Yeah? Are you also responsible for the death of thirty-three government officials, countless children, and one Prime Minister?"

He might as well have punched her in her stomach. She bowed back from him, doubled over, looked away.

"I don't understand. What do you mean…children?" She asked. Her voice with thick with apprehension. She didn't want to know.

"I mean _children_, Clara! Look at me!" He insisted. When she directed her gaze up at him, he looked sterner than she'd ever seen. "He's evil. He even killed his own daughter."

Clara recoiled from him fully at that. She rose to her feet, her head shaking of its own accord.

"No," she said, and then oddly, she laughed. "No, that isn't true. Whoever told you that is lying. His daughter was born prematurely." _I heard the way his voice shook when he spoke of her. There's no way he hurt her. _

"Is that what he told you?" Danny demanded. "His daughter was born perfectly healthy."

"That doesn't make any sense." She felt tearful. She was having a difficult time speaking. "Why would he do that?"

"Some people are just evil, Clara." Danny answered.

But that wasn't true, either. She'd yet to meet anybody here who hadn't felt morally justified by doing what they did. Everybody had an ulterior motive, a "greater good". Where was the "greater good" in killing _children_?

"How does that fit in with killing government officials?" Clara asked. Her voice sounded a bit shrill. "Don't you think it's probably more likely that the government was responsible for those deaths, and they just blamed him for them?"

The look of deep concern that Danny gave Clara made her feel idiotic. It made her feel mad.

"You can't really believe that, Clara." He whispered gently. "Can you?"

A heavy silence settled over them. Clara couldn't meet his eyes.

"Please be careful, Clara…that's all I ask. If something happened to you, if I couldn't see you anymore—" he broke off. He cleared his throat gruffly. "I would be very lost."

For that moment, her confusion and distress were buried underneath her affection for him. She settled back down onto the sofa and all but sat in his lap. She pressed her face into his shirt and reveled in the comfort of being touched.

"Will you come visit every week?" She asked.

"I'll come every day."

"It's very far."

"I'll move."

She sat up. "You can't do that."

He arched an eyebrow. "Why not? What's stopping me? I lost my job. I lost my best friends. I have no family. What is there left for me back home?"

She couldn't reply, because he had a point.

"Besides," he said. His fingers pulled through her hair. "Somebody's got to make sure you're staying in top combat shape."

Clara's sad smile echoed his. She looked down at her wristwatch.

"We have half an hour left." She informed him. Painful trepidation settled over her bones. Her fingers shook. And to her horror, Danny stood.

"Where are you going?" She blurted, panicked.

He looked back at her and then pointed at the table in the far corner. Clara watched him carry the heavy basket over, curiosity warring with her distress.

"I brought this for you." He explained. "I wasn't sure what you'd want or need, so I made some calls. I ended up chatting with a woman recently released from here. She said things like hair bands, lady products, soaps, and extra knickers were best, since the quality of the ones you can buy at the prison are "fucking terrible"—those were her words." He gestured at the products on the left side of the basket. "I did my best. I brought your knickers from your flat, but I had to get the rest, and I tried to buy things that looked familiar, so hopefully I chose well." He turned the basket around, revealing bags of loose leaf tea and a portable glass infuser mug. "These were my idea. I figured it might be good to have a way to brew your own tea, but I didn't know how much space you'd have, so I didn't bring a full teapot. And these are just all the teas you love, of course. Here's some photos—thought it might be nice to have. Oh, and two of those chocolate bars from Johannesburg you loved so much. And—" he shoved some boxes around on top, digging for something layered underneath all the other items. After a moment of struggle, he pulled the edge of a familiar quilt up to show her. "Went by your flat. Or, I guess, your old flat. Thought you might want this."

It was all lovely, but it was that last item that did her in. She didn't even apologize as she began sniffling. She didn't know where to start.

"Danny," she whispered. She reached up and pressed the heels of her hands over her eyes. "Thank you isn't strong enough. You have no idea what this means to me. You have no idea how much better this will make my everyday life."

He grinned hugely at that. "I don't need a thank you. That's all I wanted right there. To help you."

Her eyes scanned almost greedily over all the items. She finally had her own bars of soap, and it was nice soap. Thick, triple-milled lavender and sandalwood soap. She had tampons that weren't glorified cardboard chunks, an assortment of teas, and Danny had even emptied her entire underwear drawer into the basket. Her fingers touched the stack of photos, her heart rising into her throat at the sight of the one on top (her, John, and Danny floating on their backs in the Dead Sea), but it was the quilt that wrung the tears from her. It wasn't even that it was a terribly good quality quilt. It was just that the bed it was on was the very last place she'd made love with John. This quilt was the very last thing he'd slept under. As she cried, it was from relief more than anything. She felt it was only right that she had it back with her.

She was emotionally strung out and of teetering strength when she turned to face Danny. She could feel the rough stubble of his cheeks underneath her palms as she held his face. She didn't think of it as she leaned up and pressed her lips to his—she just knew she loved him, loved him, loved him. She couldn't do a thing without him. He startled beneath her, his hands hesitant to rest on her lower back. She fell into their kiss in a way that felt warm, comfortable. She wasn't aroused and she wasn't trying to initiate a thing. She just wanted to be close to him. She wanted him to know how much it all meant to her: him coming to visit, his basket. It gave her something she'd been missing. Hope.

"Thank you." She whispered against his lips. He looked stunned when she leaned back, but she didn't get a chance to question that, because a loud knocking filled the room a moment later. Clara looked around and realized it was coming from what must've been a two-way mirror before the door opened.

"RY2227, we're here to look over your gift. If no contraband is found, it'll be delivered to your cell by the time you return." A screw informed her. Clara wondered when they'd started telling her anything.

"Will she be able to keep it all?" Danny asked worriedly. "What isn't permitted?"

The screw didn't look happy about what she said next.

"RY2227 has a pass for all items except weapons, drugs, or alcohol."

Clara's suspicions rose.

"Why?" She asked slowly, her eyes narrowed.

The screw lifted the basket. She answered Clara as she turned and headed back out of the room.

"You're on a special permissions list—as long as you behave correctly."

There it was again. Clara couldn't let it pass this time.

"Exactly what's the definition of…"behaving"?" Clara wanted to know.

"Our SPO will be more than happy to cover all of that in his office at a later date." The screw replied. She shut the door behind her. Clara stared at the space she'd occupied.

"It doesn't make any sense." She told Danny. "He hates me. The SPO. I've gotten into loads of trouble. Why am I being _rewarded_?"

"I think perhaps you're being bribed." He clarified.

Clara shook her head, confused.

"Well yeah, but bribed for what? Why is the SPO so involved in my compliance? It doesn't hurt him if I'm punished."

Danny gave a short, unexpected laugh. Clara snapped her eyes to him.

"You forget how powerful you are, Clara. People ordinarily try to bribe and placate the people they feel the most threatened by." He leaned back against the sofa. "You turned soldiers against the men they were most dedicated to in a span of ten minutes. I'd imagine you could do terrible, terrible damage here, where the inhabitants already hate their superiors. My visits and your special permissions are little gifts. They think if they keep you happy and content, they'll ultimately be happy and content."

Unfortunately, she felt he was probably right.

"Seems wrong. Dirty, almost." She admitted. "There are plenty of people here who deserve extra things more than me."

"Maybe. Or maybe it's like you said. Maybe here, it has less to do with what you deserve, and more to do with what you're willing to demand."

She didn't say anything about it to Danny, but she wondered how the Doctor played into the SPO's plan.

* * *

><p>She spent the remainder of his visit curled inside the circle of his arms. They didn't talk, didn't sleep. They sat in a companionable silence until Danny was forced to leave. Clara was terribly cold afterwards.<p>

True to the screw's word, her basket of goods was on her bed when she returned. Vastra was still gone. She sorted through it carefully to make sure everything was there, and when it was all accounted for, she went about organizing it all in her drawers. She had just finished putting her underwear and teas up when Vastra walked in.

"Who'd you rob?" She greeted. She blinked. "Do those tampons have plastic applicators?"

Clara felt giddy enough to bounce on her feet. She nodded.

"Need one?" She offered.

"No, but I'm so excited to see them that I may take one anyway." Vastra admitted in awe. "Whatever you do, don't tell anybody you have these."

It was only then that she realized the potential value of her "special privileges".

"You and Jenny are welcome to them. I can have Danny bring them as often as I need." She turned and rummaged around the basket. "Look. Spiced Christmas tea. And Betty's Blue Sapphire."

She brandished the tea tins. Vastra was looking at her with an almost predatory—albeit prideful—expression.

"I knew I lucked out with you, Ossie."

The tease was perched right on the edge of her tongue. For once, she didn't have to fight with her sorrow for a bit of lighthearted banter.

"You just like me for my assets." Clara joked.

Vastra arched an eyebrow. "With an asset like that, who would blame me?"

They shared an amused smile a moment later.

Clara told Vastra all about her "special privileges" as she made them some of her new tea. Her cellmate listened intently, spread out on top of the bed, idly looking through Clara's photos. When she carried Vastra's mug over to her, the woman looked concerned.

"As much as I love smooth tampons and fresh tea, that sounds extremely suspicious." She shared. She sat up so she could take her mug. She blew lightly over the top of the liquid. Clara sighed as she crossed over to her own bed, tea in hand.

"I think so too." She almost didn't mention her next worry, but she had to. It had been quietly rotting away in the pit of her stomach. "I think they're trying to keep me away from the Doctor. I am fairly certain that when I have a "meeting" with the SPO, that'll be his main rule."

"Hmmm." Vastra commented. She took a tentative sip of her tea and closed her eyes—whether to savor the taste or think, Clara was unsure.

"And," Clara continued. She balanced her hot mug in the palm of her right hand. She let it burn until the pain was enough to focus her mind. It was beginning to wander again now that the joy of Danny's visit was beginning to wear off. She didn't want any flashbacks. Not now. "I think he's even got Danny trying to convince me not to be the Doctor's friend."

That surprised Vastra. She lifted both her eyebrows.

"Oh? Why would you think that?"

Clara moved her mug into her left palm. She stared at the angry red circle it had left on her right.

"Well, Danny told me…something. Something about the Doctor. That I really don't think is true." She hesitated for a moment, but she guessed telling her what Danny said was okay, because it wasn't the truth. "She told me the Doctor murdered children."

In retrospect, it was perhaps the wrong thing to mention to a vigilante of Vastra's title. Her spine straightened immediately. Her eyes went sharp, alert. Clara suddenly worried that the Doctor might end up on her menu.

"What?" She asked darkly, coldly. "That's impossible. I know the name of every child murderer. Punishing them was a hobby of mine."

"It's not true." Clara said quickly. "I know it's not. But I think it's interesting that the SPO made a point of telling Danny this. Knowing how Danny feels about children…how I feel about them."

Vastra crossed her ankles almost primly. Her posture was still precisely straight.

"I'll be certain to find out if it's true or not." She promised. It sounded less reassuring than it should have.

Clara set her tea onto her chest-of-drawers. She pulled her folded quilt from the basket and unfolded it. She wrapped it around her shoulders and deeply breathed in the scent of her flat, of her life with John. But it had been a mistake. Once she did, all she wanted to do was curl up underneath that quilt and weep.

"Don't go dark now." Vastra ordered. It was her usual strict, serious tone, but there were unexpected gentle edges to it. "I need to tell you about recreation."

Clara grappled for control over her emotions. She clenched right onto the edge of it.

"What about it?"

She cocked her head to the side curiously. "Did you tell the Doctor you'd meet him at the door?"

The crash of her heart to her toes was violent and painful. Clara sat straight up, her quilt dropping from her shoulders.

"Oh, God," she gasped.

"I thought so. He waited at the door for the entire break. Didn't even sit down." Vastra informed her. "Jenny and I thought about going to speak to him, but he looked rather temperamental. I think he even asked a screw about you."

Clara screwed her eyes shut tightly.

"And I'll bet the screw was more than happy to tell him I was with Danny." She bit out.

"If they're trying to keep you apart…yeah, that's a fair bet." Vastra agreed.

Clara rose to her feet. She rubbed her upper arms nervously.

"I've got to find him."

Vastra stood, too.

"I think that would probably be the end to your privileges." She pointed out. "Sneaking from your cell is not really categorized as behaving."

Clara paced the small space in front of her bed.

"I don't care. I'll figure out how to do it without being caught."

"And how do you think you'll do that?"

Clara looked at her distractedly. "I don't know. I'm highly trained—I'll figure it out."

Vastra shook her head sadly.

"Those brutal tampons are going to feel even worse when they take your visiting privileges away."

"They won't take them away. I won't be caught." Clara swore. She put her shoes back on, but then thought better of it. They were thick-soled and noisy on the tiled floor. Instead, she pulled a second pair of socks on. She grabbed one of her new hair bands and secured her hair into a tight bun so it wouldn't get in her face. "I'll be back in an hour, tops."

Vastra crossed her arms over her chest.

"And how exactly are you going to get the door open?"

"With patience and two hairpins."

"There's no way that's going to work. If that it was that easy, we'd all be roaming about."

"I never said it was easy."

It took nearly two hours and quite a lot of curses and perspiration, but she was able to fashion a tension wrench strong enough to release all the lock pins. She stuck the mangled hairpins into her pocket and flashed a tired smile at Vastra.

"Easy? No. Possible? Definitely."

Vastra shook her head in amused fondness.

"Go on then." She urged, shooing Clara off. Clara grinned and spun on her socked heel without a moment's hesitation.

Getting to the Doctor's cell without being spotted was a lot harder than she'd anticipated. There were screws wandering about everywhere it seemed. After sliding behind many trash bins, pillars, doors, and even a texting screw, she made it to his door undetected. She rose up onto her tiptoes and knocked quietly on his door.

"Doctor?" She hissed.

She waited. She could feel the back of her neck prickling and she kept turning around every few moments, nervously checking that she hadn't been spotted. She knocked more urgently the second time.

"Doctor!" She exclaimed.

After an excruciating thirty seconds passed, she began to get a sinking feeling. Either he was ignoring her, or he wasn't in there.

"Doctor? Are you there?" Clara tried again. She waited impatiently for another ten seconds, but then she was getting antsy. "I can't stand out here forever, so if you're in there, please open up."

She let out a relieved breath when she heard his footsteps approaching from the other side. She smiled and stepped back, waiting for the door to open. But it never did.

"Go. And don't come back." He said.

She stared at the door. She could hear footsteps growing closer than she was comfortable with behind her, but she couldn't seem to get herself to move.

"What?" She asked. She glanced behind her uneasily, but decided she couldn't leave on that note. She walked closer to the door. "Look. Whatever they told you—it's a lie. They're up to something. They told me lies about you, too."

"They didn't tell me anything. You told me something. You told me to wait for you—and I did. And you weren't there."

"So you're going to stop talking to me because of it? What are we—eleven year olds?" She demanded. She glanced behind her again and let out an anxious breath. "Meet me in the library tonight. We can talk."

"Nothing to talk about. You'd better move. That screw is dangerously close to spotting you."

She shifted her weight from foot to foot anxiously. She blinked back angry tears.

"This isn't fair. I didn't do anything."

"We're in prison. Nothing's fair. I learned my lesson about getting used a long time ago."

Her anger increased to a simmer. She turned on the spot, unsure whether to continue arguing or to tell him to fuck himself and return to her cell. Her anger and fear eventually won out. She moved forward and pressed her face into the crack of his door. She spat her words.

"Fine. You can enjoy spending the rest of your life all alone in that lonely, little cell. I'll be here if you decide to stop throwing a temper tantrum."

She was messy in her emotional state. Wasn't that always the case? She rounded the corner and ran right into a screw. One of the meaner ones, in fact.

He had a menacing glint in his eye.

"Would you look at that," he chuckled. Clara crossed her arms and looked away as he continued laughing. No use running. "I think we can find a small room down in Hell for you. A closet, even. Let's go."

She locked her legs in place.

"I want to speak with the SPO." She didn't have time to feel frightened or worried. She just knew she was angry and she had some sort of power here. Now was as good a time as any to figure out exactly how much. "Now. Not in the morning, not in a few days' time. Now."

He observed her in disbelief. "Exactly who do you think you are?"

"I know who I am, and it's going to be very embarrassing for you when you realize it."

He jabbed his elbow roughly into her spine. "Get moving."

"I know what you did," she said, as he manhandled her down the hallway. Her knees were still locked but he was pushing her across the floor. Pain was radiating down the length of her back. "With the computer."

It was a shot in the dark. At best, he'd looked at some confidential information. At worst, he'd looked at some internet porn he was particularly ashamed about.

He stopped walking.

"What?" He demanded. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you want me to say it out loud, right here?" She asked in surprise. "Blimey, I thought you'd be ashamed. Sure. I KNOW WHAT THIS SCREW DID ON THE COMPUTER, ON—"

Thankfully, his hand slapped over her mouth before she had to make something up. He leaned down so his lips were hovering right above her ear.

"Who the _fuck _told you about that?" He bit. He lowered his palm from her mouth.

"Confidential." She said, false apology in her tone. "But if you take me to speak to the SPO, I'll forget all about it."

He grabbed roughly onto her waist and squeezed in frustration.

"I ought to drag you to Hell by your hair," he hissed. He shoved her forward. "Get walking. He'll only be here for another hour."

She could've spent the entire walk mourning about her lost friend (and maybe even more). But she was too angry, and all she really felt was determination. So she wouldn't have him—so what? She had special privileges, she had Danny, and she had Jenny and Vastra. She'd get on just fine.

"You'd better hope you're not a liar." The screw snapped. "Because you'll regret it."

She blinked up at him. "I'm honest as they come."

* * *

><p>"<em>Maybe I should stay here, at camp." Clara worked to keep her voice casual, light. "Danny's been talking to Arnold. He wants me to go to Initial Officer Training. Might look good to stay here and do extra work." <em>

_She rubbed the page of her book between her thumb and forefinger as she waited nervously for John to respond. He was outside the mosquito netting of his bunk, his head stuck underneath the bed as he searched for his sock. _

"_I could catch you two another day." She continued. _

"_Clara." His voice was terribly muffled. "He's come all the way from London." _

"_For a lunch with the Big Boys. They were flying him out here already." Clara argued. John's granddad was well known and well-respected in the RAF, having been an officer himself. He had made the journey here to visit with "colleagues". And to see his favorite grandson and, to Clara's horror, his grandson's girlfriend. _

_She heard his shuffling about, then a hard knock, and then a curse. John emerged from the other side of the mosquito netting rubbing the top of his forehead._

"_Every time. Every sodding time." He muttered crossly. Clara bit back a smile. He didn't even have to look up. "Stop smiling. It hurts." _

_The pout to his lips was insanely kissable. Clara sat up and carefully turned her book over, lying it out on John's pillow so her spot was saved. She pushed the netting out of the way and reached for John. She tugged him over onto the bed easily. He was pliable as she set her palms on his shoulders and pushed him down. She settled herself on top of his middle and peered down at him seriously. After examining his head, she spotted the already swelling bump. She leaned forward and gently kissed it. Her palms found his cheeks and held his face gently. She stroked the pads of her thumbs over his windburned skin. She moved her face down and pressed her lips gently to his. _

"_Better?" She asked, after pulling away. _

_He smiled, his eyes still shut. "Better. Mmm. I love you. And you're still meeting my granddad today." _

_Her smile melted right off her face. She scowled and slid off him. _

"_I take my kisses back." _

"_Clara, what are you so afraid of? He already loves you." _

"_No, no. He loves the idea of me. He's never met me. What if he hates me? And then makes you hate me? And then you leave me?" _

"_Seriously? Are you having a heat stroke?" John exclaimed incredulously. "Get over here." _

_She eyed him suspiciously from her side of his bunk, but eventually complied. She rolled over into his embrace. Tried not to smile as he rolled them over and pinned her beneath the warmth of his frame. He kissed the tip of her nose delicately. _

"_You're so ridiculous." He told her gently. "As if I would ever leave you." _

_She swallowed the lump that formed traitorously in her throat. She looked away. _

"_You could. You leave me." She argued quietly. She hoped she didn't sound as frightened as she felt._

"_Just because I could doesn't mean I ever would. My granddad is going to adore you. And if he didn't, do you know what I'd say?" _

_She let her eyes flutter shut as he leaned down to kiss her throat. She kept them that way. If there were lies to be seen in his eyes, she didn't _want _to see them. _

"_What?" She finally asked. _

"_I'd tell him to get over it. Because you're my girl. My impossible girl…but my girl no less." He answered. _

"_Don't lie to me. Don't be a liar." Clara ordered. _

_He kissed her collarbone. "I would never lie to you. Ever." _

"_Shut up." She sniffed. He kissed her mouth seconds after the order. _

"_I wouldn't. I'm honest as they come, and I'm telling you I will never leave you. Okay?" _

_He lightly tapped her closed eyelids, a wordless plea for her to open them. She blinked up at him warily. His eyes were warm, honest. She let her eyes flutter back shut as he kissed her again. _

"_Okay." She gave in. _


	12. Smother

"Ah, RY2227. Lovely, lovely. Take a seat."

The fake cheer in the SPO's voice set her on edge before she'd even fully entered the room. She ground her teeth and stiffly crossed over into the room. She had just sat down when he spoke again.

"What can I help you with?" He asked. He leaned back in his office chair and stretched his arms up above his head. He crossed them and rested the back of his head against his forearms. Clara didn't deflate her tense posture.

"I want to know what you're planning. I want to know what my _conditions _are for my special privileges. I want to know why you're telling lies to Danny Pink about the Doctor."

Her words had been clear and confident, but when he began chuckling, she felt that surety weaken. He laughed and laughed until he began coughing for air. His laughter sputtered off in the way of gasps.

"God, you're as bold as brass, aren't you?"

She remained coldly inexpressive. After a long pause, he leaned forward. He sighed.

"I'll tell you my conditions first, and then we'll get to the rest, okay?"

She stared and waited.

"It's fairly simple, actually. My conditions consist of only one item. Little, tiny thing: stay away from the Doctor." He said, his voice coated with false cheer.

Clara narrowed her eyes slowly. "_Why_?" She finally asked, her voice measured and suspicious.

"Because we've got no interest in someone with _his background _mingling with somebody of _your _background."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he's committed treason and you're known for your shockingly efficient acts of mutiny. Frankly, you don't have to have two brain cells to rub together to know that's a toxic mix."

She stared. She let her eyes wander around his eerily tidy office as she processed his words.

"I thought we'd already discussed that matter. And decided that it's better to keep us both satisfied, rather than angering us and making us _want _to rebel."

"Yes, that conversation took place before I realized the power of positive reinforcement. It's simple: if you stay away from him, I'll continue allowing Danny Pink, his sexual attention if so desired, and his lavish gifts. If you decide you'd rather have the Doctor, well. That's fine. You can have him here, and we'll take away visiting privileges and gift allowances entirely."

Ah.

"So I'm meant to choose between the Doctor and Danny." She surmised.

"Briefly summed up, yes. And I'm generously confident that you'll choose Mr. Pink."

Wasn't really too difficult of a decision when one of those men wouldn't even speaking to her anymore. She looked down at her lap and licked her lips. She tried to ignore the stinging in her heart.

"Okay, so, why were you planting lies in Danny's head? What's that meant to accomplish in your grand scheme?" She pushed forward.

The SPO was quiet for a moment. Clara watched his eyebrows furrow just slightly. He remained impassive otherwise.

"What?" He finally asked.

Clara stared. "You told…" she stopped. She suddenly felt uneasy, and she wasn't sure why. "You told Danny the Doctor killed _children_. _His own _daughter. But that…isn't true."

She sounded less certain come the end of her sentence than she would've like. The SPO didn't do anything for a moment. His expression morphed into one of genuine surprise a second later.

"You didn't know?" He asked. "Well, I suppose nobody here without access to our system knows, but I assumed he would've told you, considering your…intimate relationship."

She shook her head.

"That isn't how it happened."

"I can assure you it is. The Doctor was part of a terrible, terrible cult. Called themselves the Time Lords. They believed they were a superior race—like immortal beings, or gods, if you will. They were set on making everybody in our country—and later, the world—like them. They were responsible for terrible things. The very worst being the murder of children with developmental disabilities. Handicapped people did not fit their guidelines for a potential Time Lord. Your _Doctor_ was just that. A children's doctor. Only instead of healing the disabled children that came to see him, he murdered them. He managed to take down thirty-three people in our fine government before he was finally tracked down and arrested. Even got our late Prime Minister, may his gentle soul rest in peace." The SPO bowed his head solemnly for a moment while Clara stared, her lips parted. "Awful. Just awful. I thought you knew. And I thought your visitor had the right to know the type of people you were associating yourself with."

The horror of what he was suggesting monopolized her thoughts for a moment.

"There's no way. He wouldn't do that."

"Would you like to see his official file?"

"Yes. I would." She bit.

He nodded once. Clara watched with dread and confusion as he clicked a few times on his mouse, typed a few letters in, and then slid his desk chair over to the printer underneath the window. He pulled each paper from the tray as it printed, and once he'd amassed the entire collection, he passed them over to Clara.

"Here's some reading for you tonight, RY2227. I'd advise not letting it get into the hands of anybody else."

She couldn't lift her eyes from the thick stack of paper. The first sheet was blank except for two lines of strong, black print. The top said _Inmate Name: James Gallifrey_, and underneath it, _Prison Number: KI369. _

"You're letting me take this to my cell?" Clara finally blurted.

"Why not? You've got special privileges now, and I'm ready to go home." He rose from the desk. "Goodnight, RY2227."

She rose uncertainly. She felt terribly nervous the entire walk back to her cell, as if she were holding a ticking bomb. And perhaps, in a way, she was.

* * *

><p>She stuffed it down the front of her trousers before she walked into her cell. She ignored the confused look her escorting screw gave her.<p>

She collapsed down onto her back onto her bed, careful not to roll over onto her side, just in case the papers would make an audible sound. She didn't want Vastra to see it. She didn't want her to know what it said. Vastra wouldn't take on the Doctor for many reasons, but child murder was definitely one of them.

She waited until Vastra was sound asleep, and then she opened her eyes and carefully inched her top up. She stuck her fingers underneath the stack, gripped it, and carefully pulled it up and from her trousers. She rolled over onto her side so her back was to Vastra and held the first sheet close to her eyes. The only light came from the auxiliary light above the toilet that never went off. It was so dim in the cell it strained Clara's eyes painfully to read, but she was able to do it. She read through page, after page, after page, her heart rate increasing after each one. She was nearly gasping when she finished. She felt nauseated. She was certain she was going to be sick. And all at once—she remembered the things he'd told her. Namely, she remembered his response when she'd first asked him what _The Time Lords_ did. _"And as for our organization…well, that's a conversation for another time. But all you need to know is that we're feared and despised by the government. And that our main objective is to protect the human race. We weren't the bad guys, Clara. Not anymore than you were."_

She didn't want to believe it was true. But she had arrest reports, court transcripts, crime scene notes and photographs, witness testimonies, even a psychiatric evaluation. It was a lot to have been fabricated. It would've taken so much time and money for somebody to have framed him with so much detail for _so many _deaths. The simplest answer was usually the right one, and this time, the simplest answer was horrifying.

She wasn't sure what she felt, beyond oddly violated. She stuffed the papers into the back of one of her larger books. She didn't know what she believed, but she still didn't want Vastra to find out about this. Not yet, anyway.

She curled up underneath her and John's quilt. She pressed the watch face to her cheek. Her heart was pounding so quickly it was making breathing difficult. And she felt horribly lied to. She felt dirty. If those papers were true…she'd been _friends_ with the devil. She'd let the devil hear her getting herself off. She'd let the devil get involved in it. She'd thought about fucking the devil. She'd almost done it.

If it were true, she'd been in love with a man who was also involved with it all. A man who was getting information from her behind her back and supplying it to a _wretched _cult. A man who might not have ever really loved her at all, because anybody who could subscribe to that cult's beliefs didn't have the ability to love anybody. Anybody who could kill the helpless had no heart.

She'd been to hell and she'd fucked the devil's apprentice and she'd nearly fucked the devil himself.

What fucking circle did that put her in? She felt it was probably a class all its own.

* * *

><p>"You look like shit." Vastra greeted.<p>

"I feel like it, too." Clara murmured sleepily. She fought her way from her trousers and sank down onto the toilet seat while Vastra filled her electric kettle at the sink. She rested her elbow on her knee and her forehead into her palm as she had her wee. Vastra was watching her as she rose and tugged her trousers back up.

"What happened with the Doctor last night?"

Clara wanted nothing more than to tell her every disturbing, terrible thing she'd read and saw last night. She had fallen asleep tormented by the eyewitness accounts, postmortem results, and crime scene photos. Of _children_. Innocent fucking children. She still felt nauseated. She wished she could edit it all from her memory. But she couldn't, and she wouldn't tell Vastra yet either. She had to think about it. She had to decide if it was really true, and if she could bear to be the one to send the Doctor to his grave. Because if she told Vastra…if she showed her the file…he would be dead by morning.

"I got caught. Went to see the SPO." She answered shortly.

Vastra winced. "What happened?"

"He took away my outdoors time." Clara lied automatically. She didn't want to see the Doctor. She couldn't bear to look at his face. "I have to stay in my cell."

Vastra whistled lowly. "Your boyfriend won't be too happy about that, now will he?"

"He's not my boyfriend." Clara snapped, before she could stop herself. _He's an angry man who may or may not be a huge, massive, murdering liar. _

Vastra arched an eyebrow. "Oh? Did you find out something last night that changed things? Perhaps about the claims your visitor made?"

"No. He was just…rather short with me." She decided half-truths were her best bet to making it out of the conversation unscathed. "He wouldn't speak to me. He's angry because I wasn't at recreation, even though it wasn't my fault."

"Ah." Clara watched her tug her top up over her head. She stared at her smooth, tattooed shoulder blades as they shifted beneath her skin. She turned once she'd tugged her new regulation top on. "Sounds like his feelings were hurt and he's unsure how to deal with it."

"Or he's a tosser." Clara corrected.

"Yeah, or that." Vastra agreed.

A silence settled over them as Clara idly watched her change. She didn't think much of it, until Vastra stopped and stared.

"See something you like, Oz?"

She sounded vaguely amused. Clara smiled halfheartedly automatically.

"I was wondering, Vastra. About your tattoos." She admitted. She stared at the interwoven pattern. She knew it covered literally every inch of Vastra's skin from shower time, and all were the same color of vibrant green, so she guessed there hadn't been years between each extremity. "Did you get it all done at once? I mean—you couldn't have, right? You would've been in the chair for…days at a time."

"Took about a week. I had bathroom and meal breaks. The artist stayed at my flat." She shared. She sank down onto her bed once she'd tugged her trousers up. "Do you want to know which part hurt the worst?"

The corners of Clara's lips twitched up immaturely. She pointed towards Vastra's crotch. "Your…"

"No, not even close, actually. That was rather enjoyable." She mused. Clara was having a difficult time believing that, but she focused on Vastra's words anyway. "My throat. They always say the spine hurts the most, and it was very painful, but there was something especially awful about it here." She cupped the front of her throat gently. "I think it was the vibrating pressure against my windpipe, partly. Made breathing difficult."

"So why do it?" Clara blurted. She backtracked. "Not that it isn't impressive or beautiful, because it is rather spellbinding. But it seems like it took quite a lot of pain and time."

"I did it because of the pain and the time." She responded, without missing a beat. Clara wasn't following. "Every one of these swirls represents a child or woman I've avenged. The jagged, zig-zag ones represent a child or woman I've failed. I'm keeping track of the work I do in here, too. I've got some space on the soles of my feet that will be filled, once I find a reliable tattoo artist."

Clara thought to the file in the back of her book. She looked down at her feet almost guiltily.

"I was also wondering how you got into this…business. What made you decide to protect women and children?"

"What made you decide not to?"

Clara looked back up, at a loss for words. She parted her lips but then closed them. She was about to say _I never decided not to help women and children_, but then realized that, in a way, she had. Choosing to go out of your way to avenge those hurt is a choice, just as _not _doing it is.

"Fair enough." She finally murmured.

She rose from the bed and opened her drawers. She pulled her clean uniform out for the day, and then opened her top drawer. She stared at all her new underwear. She was musing exactly what pair to wear when Vastra spoke up again.

"When I was growing up, my dad beat my mum, my sister, and me for years. They just took it. Eventually, once I was clever enough, and strong enough, I changedit. I was always the one who wasn't afraid of action."

Clara turned back.

"So you do it for your sister and your mum." She surmised.

Vastra laughed. "Fuck no. I do it in memory of dear old dad."

Not for the first time, she found herself intimidated and frightened of Vastra. It lessened somewhat as Vastra laughed, but she remembered to stay on guard.

"It's awful how parents fuck us up." Clara finally said. "Even the ones who don't do anything wrong. Even the ones who are great and don't mean to. We all carry something from them."

"Are you on my body somewhere, Clara?" Vastra asked curiously. It took her a moment to realize what Vastra was asking. She shook her head quickly.

"No, no. My parents were amazing. They never harmed me."

"So what do you carry from them, then?"

Clara pulled her glass mug from the basket Danny had given her. She popped the top open, stared down at the mesh strainer inside of it, considered not answering. But Vastra had been honest with her.

"A fear of fire and survivor's guilt." She finally shared.

Vastra didn't ask anything else about it.

* * *

><p>Before she went to lunch, she deliberately chose a pair of knickers from her new assortment. They were made of cranberry colored lace—the tiny, delicate kind that's thin and entirely translucent. They always made John painfully hard when he saw her in them; it didn't matter where they were. And despite where she was, despite the fact he wasn't even there, and despite the fact she'd never see him again, they made her feel powerful even now.<p>

"Fuck." Vastra commented lightly. "You really _do _hate the Doctor now, don't you? Just walk into the servery in those. That will teach him."

"They're not for him. They're for me."

"A reminder that you could have anybody you want in here?"

"A reminder that I'm powerful enough on my own."

She couldn't have the Doctor, but that didn't mean much. She was still powerful enough that the SPO feared her. She was still powerful enough that the SPO was _bribing_ her. She would embrace that and fuck him if he wanted to spend the rest of his life pouting over her. Fuck him for not telling her everything, for making himself so mysterious that she had no reason to think the SPO's file was wrong. And _especially _fuck him if he'd been lying to her the entire time.

"That's what I like to hear." Vastra finally said. "Let me know when you're ready to join Jenny and I. We'd love to include you in our little…._detective _service."

"Getting there." Clara admitted. She shot a side look at the book on her shelf. "Quicker and quicker as each day passes, in fact."

* * *

><p>She didn't see him for the first half of lunch. When she finally spotted him, it was only briefly as he disposed of his tray and walked from the servery. It made her blood boil.<p>

She'd told Vastra she wasn't allowed to go out during outdoors hours, so she headed back to her room once everybody transitioned from lunch. She used that time to pour back over the file, searching for something that didn't fit, some inconsistency.

_John wouldn't have been part of this_. It was the biggest hang up she had on the matter, the most confusing aspect of it all. She knew John. Despite the lying, she _knew _him. He had loved children. He'd gone out of his way to be kind to every child they'd ever met, including those injured or sick. He'd wanted children. He'd wanted _a lot _of children. How could she merge that version of him—that she knew was real, because she'd touched him, loved him, shared a life with him—with the version this file suggested. The version that would be involved in a cult that wanted to create a master race, a cult that employed a pediatrician to murder off "imperfect" (in the cult's awful, alleged words) children. It didn't make any logical sense. And more than anything, she was _terrified _to assume it could be true.

Danny came to visit her much earlier than he had the day prior. Outdoors period was only thirty minutes in when a screw finally located her in the cell.

"You're not permitted to be in here during your outdoors hours." He greeted.

"Needed some alone time." She stared him down. "Can I help you with something?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You have a visitor. Not that you deserve one."

Her heart lightened considerably. She could show Danny this file. She could tell him what the Doctor had said about John. Could ask what he thought. She smiled for a moment, but then quickly worked the expression from her face.

"Brilliant." She settled on.

She stuffed the file underneath the waistband of her trousers when the screw glanced away from her. She followed him down to the visiting room, collapsed down into Danny's arms on the sofa, and then pulled the file free once the screw was gone.

"I need you to read this." She said. "And I need to know what you think."

* * *

><p>He looked ill when he finished. He passed it back to Clara and pursed his lips.<p>

"Well?" Clara asked.

"He's fucking sick, Clara."

Clara looked down at her legs. She rubbed the coarse cotton of her trousers. "If it's true, yeah. He is."

"_If _it's true? How on earth could it _not _be true?" He demanded.

Clara was quiet for a moment.

"John was part of this cult." She finally said. She looked up at Danny. "The Doctor told me. John was supplying them with military information. He had been for _years_. Why would _John_ be involved in this, Danny? He loved children. He loved people. He was good and honest and kind. It doesn't make any sense."

Her eyes burned. She felt John was being taken away from her again somehow.

"I don't believe for a second that he was. Did the Doctor have any way to prove John was part of it? Or did he just say that he was?"

Clara rubbed her burning nose. She sniffed. "No, but…he knew John's name from the start. How would he know about him otherwise?"

"Maybe he's seen your file, Clara."

She didn't know about that, but she did remember something else. She remembered how easily he'd hacked into the prison system and found information on Dr. Martha Jones. If he could find that, who's to say he couldn't find information on Clara? He'd never given her any specifics about John, now that she thought about it. Only vague comments about how much John loved her that anybody could've made up. She pressed her face into her hands.

"God. I'm such a fucking _idiot_, Danny."

His hand was warm on her lower back as he pulled her into his arms. She pressed her face into his neck and let out a bitter, betrayed sob before she could stop herself. He wrapped his arms around her securely.

"No you're not. You're lonely and you're trapped in here. I would've fallen for it, too." He reassured her. He stroked his hand over her back. "Things will be better now. I'll be here, okay? You don't need him."

"I don't need him." She repeated.

She felt confident and sure of that throughout the rest of their meeting. She carried the file back to her room, hid it in the back of that same book, and pulled another from her shelf. She read until Vastra got back, and then she looked up and waited to see if there had been any drama with the Doctor. But Vastra had nothing to offer gossip wise, so Clara went right back to her book.

By the time recreation came around, she was _positive _she didn't need him.

* * *

><p>She went directly to the gym. She knew he wouldn't be there, and she knew that's where she needed to be. She spent the entire hour alternating between lifting weights and running on the treadmill, glad to find her muscles hadn't somehow atrophied in the time she'd been locked up. She was dripping with sweat and pleasantly exhausted on her walk back to her cell. The last thing she'd expected was to run into him—so, naturally, that's precisely what happened.<p>

"Clara." He blurted. His hand wrapped around her wrist lightly before she could bolt in the opposite direction. She looked up at him reluctantly.

"What?" She snapped.

"We need to talk."

"No, we really don't."

She snatched her wrist from his grip and set off towards her cell. It was easy for him to match her pace with his longer legs.

"Look. I'm…sorry. Okay? I get jealous. It's fucking difficult not to be, when you're the only person I like in this place."

She refused to look up at him.

"Not interested."

"Now who's the eleven-year-old?" He scoffed.

She came to a sudden stop. He had to backtrack a bit, and then he rounded so he was standing directly in front of him. She met his eyes and ignored the thrill at the pit of her stomach as she did.

"Fuck. Off. Okay?"

She went to continue walking, but he quickly sped up and stepped in front of her again, blocking her path. She ground her teeth and tried to keep her hands from forcibly removing him.

"I said I was sorry!" He said, exasperated.

Her anger crested. There were few things that annoyed her quite as much as people blocking her path did.

"And I said I didn't fucking care. You lied to me. You lied to me over, and over, and over again, and now I have no idea who you are anymore. You disrespected me. You humiliated me. You made me think you're something that you're not—you used _my dead boyfriend _to earn my trust. How sick can you get."

She wanted to forcibly shove him out of the way, but her anger kept her in place. _Give me a reason, _she thought, pleaded. _Give me a reason to fucking smack you. Please. _

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He finally drew. His voice was even, and she waited to see if he'd panic or look guilty, but the expression never crossed his face. She supposed you'd have to actually have a conscience to feel guilty.

"I saw your file." She finally blurted. With those words, she got a reaction from him. His eyebrows rose and his lips pursed. It only served to make her angrier. She seethed. "I read about all those things you did. Those awful, terrible things. I can't believe you. You really had me going, didn't you? Filling your voice with sadness, weaving a story about your poor baby daughter Susan—but that's not how Susan died, is it, Doctor? Or any of those other children? You make me sick. I can't even stand to look at you."

"So you're just going to believe the file, then?" He demanded. She forced herself to ignore the way his voice was shaking.

"Well, what's my fucking alternative? All you've given me are vague comments that could just as easily fit the file's version of events as yours! It all ties in and it all makes sense. I can't believe I was going to fuck you. I can't believe I wanted to be your friend! God. _God_." She looked away. She had a sour taste in her mouth and she thought she may be sick.

"Right." He murmured. His voice was softer than she'd expected it to be. He looked down at the floor and away from her for a moment. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly. "So that's that, then. I just have one last question for you, Clara."

"What?" She snapped.

"What do you think is in your file?"

* * *

><p>"<em>Mum," she began. She stared down at her morning toast, smothered with honey and cinnamon, like it always was. She took a deep breath. "I don't want you to send notes with my lunch anymore." <em>

_The chopping of the knife stopped. She could hear the kitchen clock ticking and the far off sounds of her dad singing in the shower. She couldn't lift her head. _

"_Okay," her mum finally said hesitantly. "Might I ask why?" _

_Clara turned around in her chair, until she was looking back at her mum. She'd turned around in front of the counter too. She had obviously tried to measure out her expression, but Clara could see the hurt in her dark eyes. _

"_I'm sixteen." Clara finally reminded her. She shrugged. "It's just kind of…babyish, isn't it? I mean, I don't know anybody who still gets cute little notes from their mum in their lunch bag." She paused. "I don't know anybody whose mum still packs up their lunch, for that matter." _

_Her mum licked her lips nervously. She nodded a moment later. _

"_Yes, of course. You're right." _

_Clara lifted her toast. "I've got to start doing it on my own. You know?" _

_Her mother's heels tapped along the floor as she approached the table. Clara felt the warm pressure of her lips against the top of her head as she dropped a quick kiss. _

"_I'll do my best, love." _

_Clara smiled. "That's all I ask." _

_She went to school, came home, did her homework, talked to Nina on the phone, got into an argument with her dad, had dinner, went to bed, and then she choked on smoke. _

_She wasn't sure when it had started. One moment she was asleep—and the next she was hearing shouts and shrieks from downstairs. The most commanding yell of them all was her mother's voice, shrieking for her. She was a good girl; she always obeyed her mum. So she jumped from the bed, crossed to the door, and yanked it open. The smoke rolled into her with a force she hadn't expected. Her eyes burned and blurred. Her lungs seized. She doubled over and hacked, so overcome with a lack of oxygen that she didn't remember the basic rules of fire safety. She couldn't process what was happening. She was asleep. And then she was awake. And now her house was breathing soot. _

_Her body remembered what her mind didn't. She fell to her knees. She army crawled across the hall, coughing the entire time. She couldn't open her eyes. The dry, popping heat made them water to the point of uselessness. She needed to get out, she needed to find her mum and dad, she needed to open her eyes, she needed to breathe—and when she finally did open her eyes, she realized she should've stayed in her bedroom and made a jump from the window. _

"_MUM!" She shrieked. The stair bannister was smoking. She wasn't sure if it'd caught flame already and somehow gone out, or if it was about to. "MUM! DAD!" _

_Where were they? She had to know. She needed to know. What if they were in their room? What if they were trapped? She turned to head back towards their bedroom, but right as she did, her mum appeared at the foot of the stairs. Clara's mind shut down at the image of the fire devouring her front hall. Her mum had no choice but to jump up three of the stairs. She half fell and half ran up them; she skidded to a stop on her knees beside Clara once she reached the top. She was blurry behind the tears blurring Clara's eyes from the heat. _

"_Clara, Oh, God. Clara, come on, love. We've got to get out. We can't—we can't go back downstairs. We have to go out the window. Come on, follow me, it's all right." _

_She hooked onto her mum's orders. They both rose to their feet and ran through the thick smoke, bent over at the waist to keep their noses closer to the ground. They ran into Clara's room, and Clara had the selfish, silly urge to grab things. Her teddy bear from when she was young. Her school bag. Her favorite shoes. Her _101 Places to See _book. All at once, the reality of what was happening hit her. Her chest narrowed. She was struggling to breathe. _

"_Through the window, down we go," her mum urged. Her mum shut the door behind them, and for a moment, all Clara could think was: _she thinks she can lock out the fire_. She was stuck, immobile. When she finally shook the shock off, her mum was tying the end of three knotted bedsheets to the end post of Clara's bed, making a makeshift rope Clara had only ever seen work in films._

"_I don't know if the knot around the post will hold, so you go first. I'm going to hold it here, to make sure." Her mum ordered. _

_The crackling was more of a roar now. Clara's heart had migrated to her head. The pounding made it nearly impossible to think. _

"_Not without you, Mum!" _

"_Clara Oswald, you go out there, _now_!" Her mum ordered. "Go, go! We don't have time for this! Go!" _

_The severity of the situation slammed into Clara when the door gave an odd, alarming _pop!_. She hurried over to the window. She threw her legs over and sat on the edge. She wrapped her legs and her hands around the sheet, and then she looked at her mum. _

"_I want you to come with me!" She pleaded. Her chest hurt. She couldn't breathe. She didn't want to leave her mum. "Please, Mum!" _

"_It'll break if we go at once. We'll fall. You could break something. I love you, you go on, be a good girl. I'll see you in a second." _

You wanted to do things all on your own, didn't you, Clara? _She realized then, staring up at her mum, that she wasn't ready to do anything on her own yet. She had been stupid. She wanted to tell her mum that—she wanted to tell her that she didn't mean it, that she still wanted notes with her lunch, but she was skidding down the sheet and she didn't remember moving. She hit the ground hard and sat there for a moment, shivering and gasping with fear. Her mind was stuck on a loop. She couldn't think and she couldn't breathe and everything was blurry. She looked around the yard. She spotted neighbors, and her dad was above her, but where was her mum? _

_She looked back up at her bedroom window. Her mum's back was to her now. Clara could see the flames rising and licking up her walls. She didn't understand why her mum wasn't coming down the sheets, too. But then she felt the soft texture against her thighs. She looked down at the ground in front of her and stared at the makeshift rope. It must have slipped. It must have ripped. She didn't know—but it was with her, and it wasn't up there. Her mum didn't have it anymore. She couldn't get down. _

"_Oh my God, oh my God, no, no, God—" her dad was saying things that didn't help. Why wasn't he helping? Clara rose to her feet. She made to run to the door, but one of her neighbors grabbed her and held her tightly. She fought against his grip. She shrieked and screamed until she heard her mother shrieking and screaming. She had never heard anybody scream like that. She had never heard her mother make sounds like that. _

"_JUMP, MUM!" She shrieked. She writhed in her neighbor's arms, struggling to get towards the door. "JUMP OUT, MUM!" _

_She was terribly lightheaded, and for a moment, all she could do was shut her eyes. The neighbor spun them around. He mumbled something about how fast fire spreads. She didn't hear her mum screaming anymore._

_It was all gone then. When everything was back, she was lying in the back of an ambulance with an oxygen mask on. And it was only her father beside her. _

"_Where's mum?" She tried to say, but attempting to speak with the mask on only made her choke. A paramedic leaned over her face and told her something she couldn't hear. She looked at her dad. He was bent over at the waist, sobbing hysterically. He didn't have to answer her._

* * *

><p>"<em>You're refreshingly involved in our discussions this term, Clara. What's your favorite thing about Dante's work?" Her professor asked. "Personally, for me, it's the cheeky references. Always was a bit of a history lover." <em>

_The heat from her takeaway coffee cup was burning her palms. She gripped it tighter. She was giving honesty a shot._

"_I like that the deepest circle of hell isn't fiery." Her voice was measured, careful. Admitting things about yourself could be dangerous. People sometimes got greedy; you'd tell them one thing about yourself, and they'd want to know twenty more things. She was vigilant about the damaged parts of herself she gave away. _

_Her professor blinked. She watched her consider what she'd said with mild confusion. _

"_Yes, I suppose it's interesting." _

"_It means the worst thing isn't burning. The worst thing is freezing." _

"_Yes…you could take that view of it, sure." _

_She nodded once. _

"_So I really like that." She completed._

* * *

><p><em>Clara had a migraine and sand in her hair. She was not having the best day. <em>

"_Hi!" _

_She flinched in shock and jolted upright, accidentally flinging the heavy material of her jacket off her face. The bright, brutal sun sent sharp waves of pain piercing along her skull. She reached up and grasped her head with gasp, shutting her eyes once she'd caught of glimpse of who'd snuck up on her. It was who _always _snuck up on her. _

"_You've got to stop doing that!" She scolded, irritable in her pain. She sank back down onto her blanket. "One day I really _am _going to shoot you. How'd you find me, anyway?" _

_He cheerfully plopped down beside her. _

"_You always come here when you don't want to be found. Which makes me think you only want to be invisible to everybody but me." _

"_Don't flatter yourself, Smith. I'm just a creature of habit." She muttered. She reached over and grasped her jacket. She dropped it back over her face, relieved when the sudden darkness softened the pain behind her eyes._

_He reached for her hand. She wedged it underneath her back before he could do anything but graze her palm with his fingers. _

"_What are you doing out here?" He asked, not the slightest bit upset by her aloofness. _

"_Have a migraine. Hiding from Pink. Don't want to do exercises. And if you tell him, I'll kill you." _

"_I'm hiding from Rand." He admitted. "He's not very happy with me." _

"_Oh? Because you're rubbish?" _

"_Hey!" _

"_What? You are. You refuse to shoot your gun." _

"_I hate guns." _

"_Well, it's a good thing you're in the army." _

"_Ha, ha," he said. She heard the blanket rustle. She guessed he'd stretched out beside her. "Are you going to be there this Wednesday?" _

"_Haven't I met you the past two Wednesdays?"_

_He ignored her comment. _

"_Yes, but I rescheduled a phone call with my mum for our meeting, so I wanted to make sure it was still happening." _

_Clara resisted the urge to lift the jacket and look at him. She smiled before she could stop herself. _

"_Aren't you a great son. Making scheduled calls to Mummy and all." _

_He was quiet for a moment. "Don't you make calls to your mum?" _

_Clara's heart pulsed with pain. She was glad her face was covered. _

"_Not since 2005."_

"_Oh," he sounded bashful and a bit embarrassed. "Sorry. Bad relationship?" _

"_She's dead, actually." _

"_Oh," he repeated, though this time it was more of a nervous squeak. "I'm sorry. How?" _

"_Bit forward of you." _

_He sputtered. Clara took mercy on him. _

"_It's fine. She…um. Our house caught fire." Her eyes were hot. _

"_Oh. _Oh_." He repeated, for what felt like the hundredth time. "Oh. That's why you're…oh." _

_For a moment, all she could hear was the far off sound of Pink yelling something. She wished she could've taken her words back. _

"_At least you made it out." He finally said, with a voice full of tenderness that Clara felt was inappropriate for how long they'd known each other. _

_She wasn't sure what to say back to that, so she didn't say anything at all. He continued. _

"_My mum's a bitch, really. Kind of an awful woman. I lived with my dad growing up because she 'couldn't handle' being a full-time mum. But I still bend over backwards for her. The love kids have for their parents is mad, right?" _

_Clara thought about the nights she _still _felt paralyzed with sorrow. _

"_Yeah." She agreed. "I don't think anybody ever outgrows needing their parents, anyway. I used to think, once I was a certain age, I'd be all right without them. But I still need my mum for at least one thing nearly every day." _

"_It's amazing. Kids are amazing. Even kids that have grown up." _

"_Adults. The word you're looking for is adults." She deadpanned. _

_He pressed on. "I can't wait to have kids. They'll love me mad like that." _

_She thought about his silly, affectionate nature. _

"_You'd be a good dad." She agreed._

"_The best. I know I would." She could hear the smile in his voice. "I'd like eight daughters." _

_Her laughter was slightly inappropriate and automatic. _

"_Oh, my God." _

"_What?" _

"_You're serious?" _

"_Yeah," he said defensively. "I am." _

"_Eight. Eight _daughters_?" _

"_Yes. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight." _

"_What's wrong with sons?"_

"_Don't get along well with men."_

_Clara shook her head, amused. "Do you have any _idea_ how insane life would be with eight small kids running around?" _

"_Yes. And it'd be amazing. I'd be the best dad ever. I'd never let anybody hurt them and I'd teach them everything." _

_Clara shook her head. _

"_Good luck finding somebody who wants eight kids." _

"_Thanks. Maybe a schoolteacher. They're used to having loads of kids." _

_Clara smiled, once again thankful her face was covered. _

"_That's what I was going to be, you know. Before the army. Maybe still will, after the army." _

"_So how do you feel about the number eight, Clara?" _

_She laughed. "Piss off, Smith." _

"_Nah. I think I'll stay right here." He admitted. He scooted closer, just enough to bring the side of his body against hers. She told herself it was her headache that kept her from moving back. She was tired, overheated, pained, scattered. That's why she moved a little closer to him, too. _

"_How's the migraine?" _

"_Migraine-y." _

"_So I suppose this would be a terrible time to sing the entirety of _the Phantom of the Opera _to you." _

"_Yes. Yes it _would_." She said dangerously, threat heavy in her tone. _

"_Okay, just checking." _

_He was quiet for an astounding three minutes. _

"_You're really odd." Clara finally shared. _

"_Yeah, and you know what else?" He agreed. _

"_What?" _

"_I think you like it." _

_Ordinarily, she would've argued. But she had a migraine. She smiled into her jacket, and when he reached over to grab her hand again, she let his fingers wrap all the way around hers before she pulled away. _


End file.
